


Refraction

by bonjourd



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Codependency, Comfort/Angst, Decisions and Consequences, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infection, M/M, Medical Procedures, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Couple, Recovery, Self-Agency, everyone is trying their best, mild body horror, no one changes the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-05-12 23:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonjourd/pseuds/bonjourd
Summary: Bucky’s figure shifted forward in the window glass and Steve was struck again by his stillness and quiet. Clean-shaven, in the fuzzed reflection he looked twenty years young but for the sharper lines wrought from sadness, anger, loss.Steve isn't okay. Bucky takes a mission. Nothing, not one thing, goes according to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I threw most of Infinity War and Egg Game out the window, because fuck 'em, that's why.

_In life, a man commits himself, draws his own portrait and there is nothing but that portrait._  
— Jean-Paul Sartre

_The first kick I took was when I hit the ground_  
_End up like a dog that’s been beat too much_  
_‘Til you spend half your life just covering up._  
_Born in the U.S.A.,_  
_I was born in the U.S.A._  
— Bruce Springsteen

____

*** 

He couldn’t wake from the dream. Then his eyes slid open to the gray pre-dawn and his throat unclenched. He spent time to breathe deeply, like his shrink told him, and noticed the gentle familiar sounds of the farm stirring to life. He came back to this body, in this time. A goat rustled in the pen, bell tinkling, and the chickens clucked from their coop. The haunting shades retreated, a temporary truce. His terror faded.

He rubbed grit and wetness from his eyes with the heel of his right palm as cold beads of sweat warmed in the humidity. “Rise and shine, Barnes.” 

He unfolded his joints and felt every year in them.

Feed for the goats and chickens, fresh straw in the pens, eggs, market, fix the damn fence again. He squinted into the rising sun, took the dew-dappled trail to the lake edge, and listened to the morning news briefing from America. The President was kicking off his re-election campaign on the Accords, unemployment was at a record low, a flu outbreak spread in Manhattan. The lake water was cool as he scrubbed, absently flexing the vibranium prosthetic in its socket. His arm, his socket. The balance was still strange. It was new enough to notice in routine motions, to make him self-conscious, the same as without the arm. His arm. He dipped the fingers in the lake and knew the temperature and density of the water. This prosthetic didn’t require maintenance after submergence. Old blood rinsed away dark red and brown, like swirls of rust chasing the minnows. The wound in his side had closed overnight. He raked his flesh hand through his hair to tie it up. Time to get to work.

The sun was high and brutal when he stopped to share lunch with his neighbor, leaning against the half-mended fencing. Shimmers of heat transformed the surrounding pasture acreage into a mirage, colors bleached yellow-white.

The neighbor broke a loaf of bread and spoke in Xhosa. “I hear we are expecting visitors tonight.”

Bucky hummed an acknowledgement. The village gossiped.

After a beat: “Staying a while?”

Bucky chewed around the bread. “Our deal stands.”

He slammed the next fence post into the dirt, dust rising to mix with his sweat.

*** 

The Golden City skyscrapers glowed as dusk fell, glass pillars catching the final rays of light and reflecting them back to the rugged horizon. There was a general background cacophony familiar to downtown: construction on the waterfront, the horns of shuttle trams and ferries, strains of music overlapped with the hyperloop’s shush-whoosh. A Dragon Flyer traced an ellipse in the dying sunset and headed north out of valley between the mountains as part of the late-evening traffic. The freshwater breeze off the harbor battled the humidity, smelling of ripened fish and the cool underside of a pier.

Bucky ignored T’Challa’s side-eye as they waited at the palace landing pad, arms folded. It was months since his last pilgrimage to the capital. He watched the sky for the telltale moment of incongruity, the slightest wrinkle. 

There. 

The old Avengers quinjet ruptured through the shielding tech, shot into the elegant Wakandan setting like an ugly Western duckling. A grounds crew hustled on deck as Bucky exhaled.

“Do you know, I have heard some very strange rumors today?” T’Challa said. The quinjet drew closer with increasing racket.

Bucky stayed silent and watched three passengers disembark from the cargo bay. Sam stretched his arms high and wide, Natasha a slim silhouette tucking her hair behind an ear. The bulk of Steve. He should be happy, he thought, that’s how people were after long absences, right? Glad reunions, hugs. Instead Bucky was unsettled, sour, and self-conscious. A peal of laughter from Steve as Sam slipped in a joke, and he was envious, too. Their old gear was worn and comfortable as the camaraderie, and he was outside it. That was the whole problem. He was outside it and he could see all the cracks, all the damage underneath.

“You and I will have this discussion later,” T’Challa remarked under his breath as the quinjet turbines cut out. He exchanged expressions with the finesse of a politician. “Welcome back to Wakanda! We have much to catch up on. Eight months since your last visit, I am surprised you remember the coordinates.”

“Yeah, that was all me, no thanks to sleeping beauty here.” Natasha gifted a rare smile as they closed the distance. Her hair was shorter and back to red again, as if it were her natural color.

Steve was sheepish, t-shirt wrinkled and hair mussed. “King T’Challa, good to see you. Been a busy year.”

Bucky caught him appraising the new arm with feigned nonchalance. He pasted on what he hoped was a pleasant expression and not a frozen smile.

“How you been, Buck?” Steve clapped him in a short hug and good lord—

“Not bad. Jesus, Steve, something die in your shirt?” Bucky wrinkled his nose as Steve waved it off. Both his hands lingered just a second longer and he battled the age-old reflex to check for injuries. This second version of Steve’s body rarely had any. The fingers of the left registered the temperature of Steve’s skin before he drew them away. 

God, but he looked awful and smelled worse. He looked old, Bucky thought, struck by the notion. The last time they Skyped, Steve had busted his back during a poor detonation job after a two-day continuous surveillance mission capped off by, of all things, two flat tires en route to the rendezvous point. Any base they didn’t raze to the ground would regrow with new roots, Steve insisted. The error margin had to be zero. Too many mistakes, he said, and Bucky had noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t have to sit on a plane with him for six hours,” Sam said dourly, scratching days-old stubble.

“Yeah, yeah, give a guy a minute to clean up.” 

Natasha set down her duffel. “Barnes.”

“Natasha.”

“New arm.”

He grinned. “Just wait until I can spar with it.”

“Getting cocky is your first mistake.”

*** 

Stars climbed into constellations by the time Bucky returned to the farmstead. The neighbor children had already tended his chores and the goat herd slumbered, little shadows nestled in the hay. Acres of fields spread out around them, invisible. Steve wheeled his motorcycle to rest next to Bucky’s refurbished dirt bike. A lonely goat bleated as Bucky kicked off his boots outside the door. He lit the old hurricane lamp and two moths fluttered to it. 

“Take the cot, I’ll set up a hammock,” he threw over his shoulder. “You hungry?”

“Not after that feast.” Steve tossed his duffel on the cot.

Bucky snuck a glance as he rigged the hammock, trying to see the simple hut through Steve’s eyes. The last time he visited, Bucky had just moved from the medical wing and the place was a blank canvas. Now the lamp illuminated pots and pans, a tool bench, a book shelf. There was a framed photo of Bucky’s ma that a cousin’s kid had sent him, and a new journal on the single table. His latest tattered science fiction paperback was dog-eared on the woven rug by the cot. Cozier than the place in Bucharest.

Steve had already lain back on the cot and drifted off, fully clothed with the duffel squashed against the wall. Bucky changed into a clean shirt and light shorts as Steve’s breathing evened out to sleep, a rhythm familiar as his own. He draped a spare wool blanket across him and turned off the lamp.

*** 

Bucky woke in a rush of adrenaline. Another presence lurked outside — not the ghouls. It strung every nerve taunt and his hand went to his thigh, to his knife, there is no knife, right.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale.

His left shoulder spasmed and he rolled from the hammock. An owl hooted unnaturally close. Bucky checked on Steve, still fast asleep, and ducked out of the hut to meet T’Challa. The Black Panther suit made him little more than a shadowy movement under the stars and new moon. 

They walked a few paces, down towards the lake where their words would be hidden by a chorus of frogs. 

“Tell me about Burundi.”

Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I found the camp. Four crates, mostly old AK’s from the Soviets, cheap crap.”

“Four crates of cheap crap that have disappeared in Ubundu.”

Bucky swore. “There was a complication.”

 

_North of Mabayi, Burundi:_

He was in the bush, scouting the party as they traded jokes and a flask of urwarwa around their campfire. One man guarded the arms shipment truck, outfitted with an ancient submachine gun last cleaned by Stalin. Bucky painstakingly circled around, nettles catching at the bandana over his camouflaged face. After forty-three minutes the guard took a piss behind the truck. Bucky slipped out to approach. 

A different gun clicked and he froze.

 

Bucky bit his lip. “Missed him on the recon, sleeping by the back tire. Just a kid, hardly a teenager. So.” 

He didn’t know what else to say. How to say. A satellite blinked its arc across the sky. He picked out Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper. He thought about how he’d stood there, rooted, waiting for the inevitable mission protocol to boot up and commit the act necessary for mission completion. The kid yelled in Swahili and shot him. Then Bucky had fled.

T’Challa finally spoke. “Do you think I never encounter such a thing? Do you wish me to tell you a right or wrong choice?” The king shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back to face the lake.

“When I was the Soldier it was simple. Zeros and ones. Black and white.”

“And you miss the simplicity?”

“Not like that,” Bucky said sharply. A breeze cooled his sweat and gave rise to gooseflesh.

“No,” T’Challa agreed. His shadow blotted out the lake’s starry reflection. “So now I am hearing rumors of a white wolf in the bush. Even now, HYDRA is recruiting to rebuild their cell in Congo; they will have their ears to the ground. It will be harder for you to operate without attracting notice.”

“I’m leaving.” He put it flat on its face and let the frog song fill the silence. The lake lapped the shoreline in wavelets.

“I think it would be good for both of you.”

The Black Panther melted into the night. He’d been hoping for T’Challa to challenge him, give him a reason to stay he hadn’t thought around, despite having made the necessary arrangements already. It was so easy to fall back into craving directions, orders. He made subjective decisions and doubted them. Without punishment was it a good call or an undisciplined bad one? Fight or run, stay or leave. His shrink kept saying this was part of rebuilding confidence in his moral code. Frankly, it was exhausting. His moral code wasn’t infallible programming.

Coming back to the hut, Bucky caught Steve murmuring in his sleep. His fists clenched so hard they were white-knuckled, jaw rigid and teeth grinding.

“Steve, wake up.” They’d done this routine before. “Steve.”

Bucky braced himself and reached out with the left arm, the index finger brushing Steve’s chest. At the sense, Steve flew up, gasping, gripping the vibranium and ready to throw a punch. He caught himself and let go just as quickly. “Bucky!”

“I’ll get some water.” He lit the lamp and rummaged around, grateful he didn’t have a black eye to nurse this time. The heat and pressure sensors in the arm faded.

Steve downed the water as it trembled in the tin cup, then passed a hand through his sweat-matted hair and beard. “Sorry.” 

He accepted the empty cup but remained at the foot of the cot. The frame creaked in protest under their combined weight. The silence grew thicker with unsaid things until Bucky shifted to take a hard look at Steve, who already had his old hangdog expression. The flicker of the lamp cast shadows that deepened the sharp lines of fatigue in his face. Bucky ached to smooth them.

“You can’t stop,” he said flatly. “Okay. I’ve had eight months to think about it.”

“Buck--”

Bucky plowed forward, committing it to words, saying it plain: “When you leave, I’m going with you.”

“What? Why? But you have a life here?” 

Bucky had to get up from the cot, create a physical distance from Steve’s disappointment and concern. 

“You got away from it all,” Steve said, as if Bucky ever took that for granted.

“I’ve been running covert ops for Black Panther.”

“What?” Steve said again. It hit him with the abruptness of a slap. “You don’t owe—”

“I do, but that’s not the point. Don’t pretend you know my life now. Don’t sit here and tell me how great it is, how grateful I should be.” Bucky grimaced and hunched over the small table. 

“You’re right, I don’t know. But I can’t bring you back on ops; if anything happened… You’re safer here.” Steve began to shutter himself away but Bucky wasn’t about to roll over. 

“I’m not some doll in a dollhouse,” Bucky snapped. 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to do this alone.”

“You’re not alone—”

“Steve. Not without you.” 

He said the words with such finality and certainty that for Steve to disagree would have meant a fatal breach of an unspoken contract. So Steve shut his mouth and studied his hands, slid his fingers over where his shield callouses would have been. Bucky could see clear as day how it was all catching up: Steve’s fucking pathological urge to throw himself into the fray as long as there was breath in his lungs, his inability to retire from a fight, any fight. Bucky could see him sinking and it scared the hell out of him. 

They teetered on the edge of argument, Bucky keyed up and ready to throw fists if needed, ready to grab hold of whatever he could and not let go, get dragged through the dust. Steve had always been the stubborn one; maybe he recognized the sentiment because he relented, shoulders sloping as they released.

The sunrise inched across the dirt floor as Steve glanced up at Bucky. “Go for a run?”

Okay? Okay. Bucky took the olive branch in relief and reached for his sneakers. “Loser feeds the goats.”

*** 

Bucky wheezed a laugh and collapsed into the high pasture grass as Steve flopped beside him and groaned. Bucky rested his gaze on the morning mist where it rose from the lake, the sunlight foggy in its morning weakness, and his heart beat strong and full through his body. A flock of tall birds gathered on the water. He found himself overwhelmed with a desire to hold this moment in his mind forever, like a balm to apply to future wounds. And, like all perfect moments, it was inherently fragile.

“Been meaning to,” he started, then stopped, cleared his throat. “You know, I’m sorry. About Peggy passing. I read she had a good life.”

Steve closed his eyes and knitted his brows together. “Yeah, she did.” His hands flattened the grass. A heron sailed overhead. “You know, I still haven’t been to her grave? Never went to yours either.”

Bucky tried not to think about the family plot, the natural order of things upset. He visited once, when he was still in the States after the helicarrier. He had wanted to bury himself there forever and correct the past; instead he’d curled on the grass, much like now, until the caretaker found him. 

“It’s funny,” Steve said, “That minute right as you’re waking up on a good slow day, before things catch up, sometimes I’ll think it’s still back then, before. And I can’t wait to talk to her — see what lipstick she chose today, or laugh at a dumb joke she was too smart for. I’ll swear I can smell the perfume she liked best. Then it all.” He clenched his jaw, as if he was back in his nightmare. “Sometimes I want to stop missing her because it hurts so damn much. Like part of me is still trying to thaw out after the ice, but it never will. I thought maybe, with Sharon — Sorry, I don’t mean to...” He made an all-encompassing gesture.

“It’s okay.” There was never time to grieve. Months and years slipped away too fast like water through a sieve. “Sharon’s a good agent.”

Steve paused. “Yeah, she is.” He sighed. “People say everything happens for a reason, but lately I just can’t figure it.”

Steve slept most of three days until the mission tension leached from his shoulders.

*** 

Okoye’s bare feet squealed against the gym mats as she slid to block Natasha’s knee with her pole, a dull thunk of wood against leather pads. She ducked a right hook and whipped the pole back around to Natasha’s ankles, forcing her to jump. Off-balance recovery, a strike to the chest. Natasha doubled over and Okoye dealt a light upper-cut to knock her flat on her back with a gasp. Okoye straightened, and extended a hand.

“Ow.” Natasha rubbed her chest and accepted the help. She unstrapped the sparring pads and nursed the petty bitterness of a loss. “Since when is boob-punching fair in a spar?”

“You are favoring your left leg. Already not a fair spar,” Okoye retorted as she shook out her arms.

Natasha winced. “Don’t tell mom over there.” 

They both watched Steve adjust the punching bag in the corner to begin his second onslaught. Reinforced fabric, because last time he went through five bags in an hour. Sam caught their gaze and paused his squats, giving a ‘get a load of this guy’ gesture behind Steve’s back. 

“Some of us don’t have super healing powers.”

“We have treatments available.”

“No thanks.” Her wounds kept her from becoming too reckless.

“I see the news.” Okoye followed her to the bench where Shuri reclined, the training gym beginning to warm with sweat. “You have a team of masochists. Too much work, not enough rest.”

Natasha massaged her left thigh where the muscle still wanted to cramp. That hit close to home. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m not working. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

Okoye rolled her eyes. “Oh, so now you are in the proverb business. Next!” she yelled, stepping back to the mat.

Shuri glanced up from the tablet she’d buried her nose in. “White Wolf, show us some moves!”

Bucky set the barbells back in place and shrugged the vibranium prosthetic, working out the knot in his shoulder where the old system reinforced into his spine. His flesh hand prickled from the long reps and heavy weight; the other registered only the density of the barbell. He paused the news report on a widening CDC emergency in New York. 

“How’s it looking with the added weights?”

“How does it feel?”

Did it feel like anything? “Good. Great.”

“Then good. Great. Now go get beat up for my science.”

He could think of ten other chores he’d rather do, but it was Shuri, and part of having the arm meant actually using it. Systems integration, they called it, back in PT. The arm had caught up to his reflexes soon after installation, and he wondered how the wiring connected in his brain and muscles. An invisible network of inhumanity. 

The punching bag stilled in the corner as Bucky stepped onto the mat against Okoye, and he couldn’t help but believe this was an exhibition. An audition? He was mission-ready, he was in control. He had nothing to prove. Right? Okoye cocked an eyebrow in challenge and readied her pole. She wore only light training gear, no sparring pads. She was too vulnerable. 

He ducked and dodged her first two strikes, then kicked but let himself be countered by the pole.

“You know the whole point is to let me fight you,” she said under her breath, reading his discomfort like an open book.

Bucky spun away from another hit and circled back. She charged him and swung low when he expected her to go high, landing a blow to the biceps of the arm. His arm. The impact registered and echoed: the angle of impact, the force of the hit, the strength of the material.

“Ah, there you go,” Shuri called, watching her tablet and the network of activated sensors.

He blocked two more strikes on the defensive as Okoye drove him back, until she scoffed and dropped her stance. “White Wolf or a turtle?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky grumbled in place of apology, ears burning. She would take it as disrespect but it was too easy for him to see it ending with broken bones, as it often did in the field. Control could be a tempting illusion.

“As if I would let you,” she snapped, towering and furious. “Two idiots in a row, and now I am late for training the real Wakandan fighters.” Okoye tossed the pole back to the wall on her way out as Shuri groaned. 

Bucky kicked the mat half-heartedly and figured he was done for the day. He hadn’t lost control but he had shown nothing to inspire confidence. Getting Steve to take him on board was one obstacle, getting Natasha and Sam to trust his value was another.

“Go again? With me, this time?” Steve appeared before him, overeager and boyish. He would rather eat cacti.

Shuri clapped her hands. “Yes! C’mon Bucky, please?”

Bucky clenched and flexed the left hand, considering it. Fighting Steve was a trigger risk he hadn’t exposed himself to yet. There was no telling. He remembered the helicarrier.

Sam cautiously interjected from the sidelines. “So, Bucky, this could be a good time to work on staying in the moment. Focus on your breath, staying present here, not thinking about those negative experiences, right?”

Right. Damn it. Bucky focused on the minute stitching in the gym mats, the tangy metallic residue from the barbells, Steve’s earnest expression he got when he cared too much. He was in a run-down training gym in Wakanda. This was different. He was in control. 

“If I lose it, don’t start singing kumbaya, just take me down.”

“Done,” Natasha answered a little too casually.

Steve tried not to smile; probably with glee at the prospect of getting beat up. Bucky pointed a finger. “With the shield guards.”

Sam reached behind the bench and tossed the wrist guards. Steve strapped them on and tested the deployment mechanism, vibranium slats fitting over his hands, still wrapped from the punching bag. Satisfied, Bucky tilted his head at Steve: _You sure?_ Steve nodded once: _We can do this._ Not for the first time, Bucky wished for an ounce of his clarity.

__

__

“Okay, time for Mortal Kombat! Captain Amer— er, Rogers versus vibranium! But no breaking the arm,” Shuri added.

“Thought it was indestructible,” Bucky muttered and pulled his hair back as he fell into stance across from Steve.

They circled each other. A part of his brain was already calculating the success odds of various attack angles. Bucky kicked left, hook to the right, left. Steve blocked as fast as he threw them, the hard smacks of contact satisfying and sure. He could do this all day. Bucky tilted into an odd déjà vu — the highway — but fought it off with a twinge of vertigo. Then he turned aside and ducked Steve’s fists. He caught one in the stomach and staggered back a step, pleased by a rare breathlessness. They were both holding back; Steve could’ve sent him into the floor. Bucky had a split second to land a roundhouse, then his ankle jolted in the socket as Steve grabbed and twisted his foot. Bucky flipped with it and caught himself before landing face-first on the mat. He rolled up to a crouch and they circled again. Shuri read out stats from the bench but it all faded into the background.

The vibranium arm warmed pleasantly. Now it was Steve who moved first and Bucky made him work for it. Dodge left, right, close enough to catch the air moving past, a whispered threat of force. It was a dance, absent the violent menace of the highway and the helicarrier, and they moved with each other. Bucky caught Steve’s fist in the vibranium one and had a flash update of temperature, energy, yield. He twisted Steve’s arm back to the edge of injury, a tease before letting go. Call the bluff. He felt a real honest-to-god super-soldier impact on the next block as Steve kicked forward and nearly took him out at the knees. It thrilled up the arm as the kinetics absorbed and he went lightheaded with a rush of stats feedback, an intimate knowledge about Steve’s body and the power in it. 

He almost missed the next block. Bucky ducked the follow-up and rolled out a punch that smacked against the shield guards. He brought up his knee and forced Steve back enough to see the twist of competitive frustration in his face. And that was fun. Bucky tried to land a left hook, but the guards blocked him again with a screeching metal-on-metal rub. The energy in the arm as it met its vibranium sisters was a physical buzz — just enough of a distraction. Steve swung around and the next hit caught Bucky full in the chest. He flew airborne across the mats, ribs creaking but holding. The oxygen whooshed from his lungs and he rolled over and flung out the arm before he could think to pull the punch. 

Steve smacked against the wall, followed by a shower of plaster.

Bucky froze in a vise of spontaneous terror. He’d lost control, was he hurt, jesus — but then Steve got to his feet and the dumbass was laughing. Laughing. Bucky clapped him on the shoulder and found relief in the crinkles around Steve’s eyes, the lightness of Steve’s giddiness. Had me on the ropes, sure, pal.

*** 

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Sam called from his gym locker. “Exposure, positive outcome, positive reinforcement, it’s all good. Barnes?”

Bucky found the other sock he’d been searching for and rubbed a towel over his mess of hair. He slammed the locker shut and crossed his arms, the vibranium at room temperature against his bare chest. He waited for the shower’s hiss to start in the adjacent facilities before he rounded the corner to confront Sam. “If it was anyone but Steve, they’re a new mural on the wall out there.”

“Their fault for picking a fight with you.” Sam shrugged on a faded USAF shirt. “The more you practice, the more control you’ll have. Just like up here.” Sam pointed to his head. “Give it time.”

Bucky cleared his throat and studied the tiled floor. “Yeah. Next mission, I’m coming.”

Sam paused with one shoe laced, eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “Okay.” 

Bucky waited as he put on his other shoe and methodically packed away his gym gear. 

“This about Steve?”

“It’s about me.”

“And Steve?” he gently challenged.

“What if it is?” Bucky glared. He’d already survived one shrink conversation about his decision and his hackles were up to suffer another. He had damn well earned the right to make his own choices, even if that meant second-guessing most of them.

Sam frowned, but his jingling ringtone interrupted. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment before glancing at Bucky, troubled crease still set on his face. “Gotta take this. But our conversation? Not over, Barnes.” Sam hauled his duffel over a shoulder. “Hey ma, told you not to waste your long-distance.”

Bucky heard the shower shut off and resumed throwing dirty clothes into his own duffel. Beneath the ripped athletic shorts and stained tanks were his Sig, Glock, and four knives of various lethal lengths, because he wanted to visit the shooting range later, or be prepared for enemies to pop out of the fucking sewer to capture him or kill Steve or both.

“Shooting range later?”

Steve brushed by in a wave of damp heat. “You just wanna embarrass me again.”

Bucky grunted and shrugged. He glimpsed Steve’s vast expanse of pale skin next to him while Steve dried his hair and tugged on underwear and a t-shirt. He caught a short soft scent of baby powder deodorant so banal and normal it made his heart clench. Being a fugitive didn’t suit Steve so well. Bucky followed the news; he catalogued every HYDRA base that was blown up and burnt down. He read about what happened after Sergeant Barnes died in ‘45. Ruthlessness could be learned, even by good men like Steve. They had left their innocence in the previous century.

Bucky selected a clean shirt and scowled. Steve was looking at him, at the messy exposed scarring on his left, the place where the old metal socket fused with skin. The place the serum had tried again and again to heal before succumbing to a raised ugly web of pink and white scar tissue.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

Steve started, caught. His hair stuck up at odd angles, eyes wide.

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin flat line. He held up the left arm, watched Steve’s eyes follow, and let it rest above the u-neck of Steve’s undershirt. The fingers acknowledged the pulse of the jugular and bob of the Adam’s apple, the residual warmth from the hot shower. Steve, to his credit, didn’t shy away. He met Bucky’s anger openly, breath hitched. A trickle of water from his still-damp beard traced down his neck and across the vibranium.

“This doesn’t feel pity and it damn well doesn’t feel your misplaced guilt,” Bucky grated. He knew what Steve relived in his nightmares more often than not. He knew why Steve’s hands clenched tight, trying to hold on. And he’d rather be six feet under than have Steve see him that way. Everyone else, fine, fuck them. But not Steve.

“I know,” Steve whispered.

Bucky dropped the arm, watching how the nanoplates contracted and expanded. “I just beat your ass in there, Rogers, so spare me the sad face.”

“I’ve never pitied you, Buck.” That was true.

He ran his flesh hand over the smooth vibranium and detangled the competing sensations. “Whatever the next mission is, I’m not some fucking eggshell. Return me the favor?”

Steve gave a weary half-smile and tossed his towel in the locker room hamper. “I always trust you with my six.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky laced his boots and tied back his hair, a small bloom of pleasure in his chest.

*** 

_Bang bang bang._

Reload. 

_Bang._

_Bang bang bang._

Bucky went through the motions at the shooting range and found the monotony and surety comforting. This he had always known, before and after. He controlled. The recoil distributed up the arm. Switch to the other hand. Put the target further out, pick up the rifle, sight it through the crosshairs. 

Breathe. 

The pulse of the jugular, the bob of the Adam’s apple. 

His hand wobbled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New places, old faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for one (1) scene of gentle smut.

Steve studied the map of Eastern Europe for the twentieth time. Multi-colored pins marked up the holoscreen with notes for completed missions and accumulated intelligence from HYDRA’s files, Fury’s tips, and Bucky’s recovered memories. A methodical uprooting. Cut off one head and two more take its place. Steve’s strategy was to cut off one head by burning it into oblivion, then move on to the next. He zoomed in a cluster of pins in southern Ukraine and looked at the town and road names without reading them. He rubbed a hand across his neck to chase the ghost of an earlier touch. A breaking news alert scrolled on-screen: curfew instituted in Manhattan as flu outbreak worsens. It came on the heels of a flight ban over the weekend. Steve frowned.

The door to his temporary Citadel office opened, and Natasha joined him at the console with the faint scent of vanilla. She perched on the ornate mahogany desk and tinkered with a miniature Wakandan flag ornament, nodding at the news alert. “Pretty bad back home.”

“Thought the future had vaccinations.”

She set down the figurine and smoothed her skirt, the sign she was about to get to business. “So, a week of down time enough for you?”

Steve closed the map, aware his fixation on HYDRA these days seemed borderline obsessive, in Sam's words. 

“Just getting a status refresher.” 

Without the holoscreen, a robust ensemble of traditional African masks confronted him.

“No, seriously. Coordinates from Fury.” She held up her burner phone. “Morocco.”

Steve felt a bump of anticipation and Natasha pulled the holoscreen back. A new lead? He yielded the console and she plugged in the coordinates. The screen reshuffled itself and zoomed in on a road map of the Moroccan desert. She switched to satellite view. 

“Small compound off the main road south of Marrakech. What do you think?”

Steve frowned. “Camels.”

“Keep eyes on it.” She checked the satellite feed was set to record. “Sam tells me we’re plus one.”

Shit. Steve leaned back in his chair, wishing he had brought this up sooner. He had planned to. Eventually. “That’s right.”

“We're a team. We decide together, or did you forget?”

“I should've asked earlier.” He rubbed his forehead. “Sorry.”

“Seems you're always keeping secrets about Bucky.”

Steve thought of a different type of secret and flushed despite himself, which in front of Natasha was the same as saying it aloud. It sucked the oxygen from his pores. Her expression stayed cold, but she rose from the desk and paced a slow half-circle around the room, taking care to examine the mask collection. This was her family he was bringing Bucky into, and ultimately it was her call, not his. But SHIELD had given her a second chance, and he asked the same for Bucky. He would fight for that, even if it meant losing her friendship.

She cocked her head, calculating. “Is he ready?”

Steve exhaled and loved her fiercely. “He threw me across a room yesterday. He’s ready.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. He’s ready.”

“He better be. Because we're trusting your judgement on this. My life and Sam's life. I find us on the wrong end of his rifle again, I’m not pulling my shot.”

***

Steve sat on the rug and sketched. The pencil skated over the page and refined lines as an outline emerged from blankness. The light was low as the sun sank, but he liked how it fuzzed the sketch into softness. It was a figure he’d drawn so many times before; he could go from memory alone and draw it in the dark. The tilt of the head, the curve of the cheek, the long graceful line of the spine and lower. Bucky always knew when he was being watched; Steve could tell by the way he held himself as he turned a page of his paperback. This time Steve didn’t dwell on the mess of scarring; it was hard to resist the guilt trap, like tonguing a cut on the roof of the mouth, but Bucky had absolved him so he had to work on forgiving himself, too. The vibranium was dark and smooth without the obvious plate mechanics of the old arm, without the flesh and blood and skin and hair of the original arm, and it filled the empty space from eight months ago. The pencil continued its journey, to the soft backs of his knees and soles of his feet, vulnerable and bare in ways that made Steve want to forsake everything else.

He remembered sketching in Brooklyn, first enthralled by the full curves and graceful strength of women. Then boys grew into men with bodies and muscles ripe for exquisite envy. He worshipped at the altar of both these forms, if only he could capture and hold them to paper. It was how he’d discovered the new broadness of Bucky’s shoulders and chest. Later he cherished the haughty youthful sureness alive in Peggy's face. Beauty was in the beholder’s eye, and as best Steve could figure, his had always given equal opportunity.

Now it was his turn to be watched, as Bucky dog-eared his book in the dim light. Steve went over the lighter lines, made them solid and full. The muscles of his calves where they tapered and swelled, the resting strength in his thighs. The dip and round curves of his glutes. His neck where it gently bent, the line of his jaw very still and waiting. His eyes as they watched his own, lazy in the encroaching darkness and evening humidity. They left to wander further down Steve’s body. Steve set down the pencil.

He went to Bucky like a kite on a string and let himself be pulled down onto the too-small cot. He pressed flush against warm skin sticky with hay-sweet sweat, where underneath smelled like Bucky had always smelled no matter what year. Steve closed his eyes and inhaled against Bucky’s neck, mouthed against the salt there, thrust his hips for the sake of friction as he worked his pants down. Bucky pulled him closer until Steve felt his spit-slicked hand close around him. Steve was rough, urgent, god it had been eight months and before then, a lifetime. He needed to feel something, anything, in this body again, to warm all those places he’d gone cold. Steve panted as he crushed their mouths together, teeth smashing violent and desperate, and thick stubble scraped both ways. Bucky met and handled his strength. They breathed each other’s exhales in short bursts in the dark until Steve tipped into release and groaned quietly into Bucky’s shoulder. He waited for the world to shift back into focus, then rolled away to take off his sticky-wet shirt and wipe up the mess. His spent cock jerked as he watched Bucky lick his fingers tentatively, with an expression masked by the shadows. 

Steve dropped the shirt and slid down to his knees, leaving long, sure caresses along bare skin, a physical touch to where he sketched. He nuzzled into the coarse hair high on the inside of Bucky’s thighs and the muscles twitched, Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. Steve glanced up before going further and got a squeeze in reply: _yes, okay._ He licked his lips and eased over to take Bucky’s soft cock in one gentle mouthful, to hold him safe and warm. He hummed and closed his eyes as Bucky’s shuddered breathing smoothed out, and the familiar flesh hand on his shoulder grounded him as he lost sense of time. 

_It’s not like before_ , Bucky had said months ago when Steve stopped short. _I don’t think I’ll ever be like before._ But part of loving a person was seeing and loving all their weak and broken parts too, Steve knew. He might never know the right way to say that to Bucky, but sometimes you didn’t need words.

***

Natasha reviewed the satellite surveillance footage again, the glow from the holoscreen the only light in her suite. Two camels, three donkeys. One main house serviced regularly by motorbikes weighed down with baskets of spices and argan. All unremarkable this close to the Marrakech markets. The resolution was too low for individual identification and the feed had cut out two hours earlier. She double-checked Fury’s coordinates. 

It didn’t sit right.

***

Bucky closed out the latest news alert on his phone. The death toll had risen in Manhattan; whatever this new flu outbreak was, it was serious. He sighed and finished a final scan around the hut he’d called home for the last year. The swept floor and shelves were tidy for the neighbor. He'd sold his dirt bike to a mechanic in the next village. The hut wasn’t much, but it had been his and he would miss it. He slipped the photo of his ma into his notebook, into his backpack, and walked out. Maybe one day he'd find a place to stay for good, if such a home existed. One of the old brown goats bleated balefully from the pen, and Bucky gave him a rough rub on the head. "Stay out of trouble, buddy."

Steve kicked the motorcycle into gear as Bucky swung on behind him, left arm grabbing back to balance. His kimoyo bead bracelet clinked against the vibranium. They would be simple decoration after he left Wakanda, but he remembered Shuri’s parting words: _The mind can go in a thousand directions; these will help you live in the breath._

***

The runways of Marrakech International Airport appeared on the horizon from the quinjet cockpit and Bucky was keenly aware they weren’t in Wakanda anymore. Natasha flipped the quinjet into stealth mode and their lights dropped. They wouldn’t be landing at the airport tonight. Out here, fall into the wrong hands and he’d never see the sun rise again. Interpol, CIA, MI-6, the Kremlin, China: united in very little, save their desire to bring in the Winter Soldier. The words were gone but HYDRA wasn’t. They could find another way. 

Bucky itched to suit up and get going.

“Okay kids, ready to hold on to your butts?” Sam stood up from the cockpit and stretched, then grabbed his wings from a locker. “Can’t believe I’m already back on this bullshit.”

“Not gonna be that bad, Wilson,” Natasha called from the flight controls. Steve smirked and buckled his gloves with the shield guards.

“How you doing, Barnes?” Sam asked, watching Bucky load and check his third handgun.

“Swell.” Bucky slouched back and rolled his left shoulder. The tac vest was heavy on his chest. He ran down the list of weapons on his body and brought out a knife to flip. The serrated edge tinked against the vibranium.

Natasha turned off the remaining cabin lights and the quinjet took on a ghostly green hue under the night vision goggles. Steve handed him a comms unit and gripped his shoulder.

“All right. Nat’s gonna take us in low for the drop-off and circle back for support. We approach from the front, clear any civilians first,” Steve said with an authority suggesting he said these exact lines a hundred times before.

 _This is Nest, everyone got me on comms?_ Natasha asked in his ear. 

“Roger, Bluejay,” Bucky replied.

_Roger, Falcon._

_Roger, Eagle._

“Let’s fly,” Sam said, and flipped the lever to open the jump doors. A blast of arid, sandy wind hit them in the face and the ground below was invisible in pitch darkness.

_Go time in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1, Falcon go for wings._

“Whew, love this part!” Sam disappeared from the bottom of the jet into the night.

Bucky cleared his mind and stood. Steve was next to him. They waited a moment as the wind whistled.

_Bluejay and Eagle, clear for jump, go._

He didn’t think, just stepped out over the doors and dropped into nothing. They were lower than he thought and the desert was only a second in rushing to meet him. He hit and rolled to a crouch, drawing a handgun from his thigh. The ground shivered as Steve landed behind him. Through his goggles he watched Sam glide down. There was no other movement.

 _Falcon landed_ , Sam whispered.

 _Moving in_ , Steve replied.

_Nest circling, go ahead._

The compound exterior was deserted. Two motorbikes rested against the front gate next to a silent pile of clutter and detritus. In the distance horns honked on the main highway into Marrakech even at this late hour. Twisted shadows of olive and argan trees spread out around them. Bucky spared a double-take for a figure amid the grove but it was only an apparition, eerie in the night vision.

They passed through the gate to the front door, a large ornate wooden affair. Steve waited as Bucky and Sam took up position on the opposite side. Natasha’s satellite surveillance showed at least four people on delivery shifts. Not the most challenging hit, Bucky thought.

_Ringing the doorbell._

Steve motioned to Bucky and after a silent count they broke down the door in a crunch of splinters. He swung around with his Sig up and—

A floor light flooded the room and blinded him. Bucky flung back his goggles, shielding himself behind the arm. He blinked.

“Well, well, look who’s here.”

Fury emerged from the depths of a side room, ending a phone call. He'd exchanged his trademark leather duster for a simple black turtleneck and combat fatigues, though the eyepatch was distinguishable as ever. A woman in a burqa reclined on the edge of a barren courtyard fountain behind him, next to a bag of McDonald’s takeout and a Glock. She pulled down the veil — Maria Hill. The compound was abandoned and musty. Weeds grew from cracked concrete.

“What the fuck?” Sam said, pushing back his own goggles.

Fury raised his hands before Bucky's Sig. “Relax, we’re not here to bring you in. Soldier.”

“That must be a joke.” Bucky raced through the possible scenarios. Was it a trap this whole time? Steve wouldn't. He refused to believe it. The hell he would let SHIELD take him back, and if it meant shooting Fury again — well, he'd make sure it wasn't fatal. The most dangerous animal was a cornered one.

“Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve said, but it rang false. In what sense was this okay.

"You knew about this?" Bucky had to ask, and the words tasted bitter.

"No, of course not."

_What’s going on? Is that… Is Fury here? That fucking—_

“Nice to hear you too, Agent Romanoff.” Fury had comms gear of his own.

Sam holstered his guns and shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve been listening in? Oh, this better be good. Fucking missing my fantasy league draft for this shit.”

Natasha could lie — hell, so could Steve — but Sam was authentic enough for Bucky to consider perhaps everyone else was surprised too. He allowed Hill to step forward, her hands held in view. 

“We’ve got a situation in Manhattan,” she said. “The US is prepared to extend safe harbor in return for assistance.”

“I don’t believe you.” It was his fundamental position with the US government. Bucky kept the Sig steady, strung tight as a wire.

Fury cocked his head. “You ain’t even heard the whole story yet. Shit, we didn’t even know your ass was running around on missions until ten seconds ago.” He glared at Steve with one eye.

Steve retracted the shield guards and reverted to his default mission status: simmering impatient anger. He crossed his arms. “And last anyone officially heard, you were dead and buried. Now you’re making deals for the administration?”

“‘Officially dead and buried’ seems to be a qualifying attribute these days. As Agent Hill was saying, we have a situation. Let her continue.” Fury spread his hands as if it were the most natural meeting in the middle of a foreign desert.

Hill kept her focus on Bucky, unfazed by the combination of cyborg arm, handgun, and spooked former assassin. “The outbreak, we’re entering crisis mode.”

He connected the dots: The news reports.

Steve squinted. “Outbreak?”

“Yeah, thought the CDC was on it, like a bad flu.” Sam shrugged.

“It’s a brain infection. Manhattan's in a mandatory quarantine but it's too little, too late. Bottom line is it’s spreading faster than the folks on the ground can respond. The military’s mobilizing for containment.”

“What?”

“Holy shit.”

Natasha kept her tone neutral over the comms. _Containment?_

“If this gets into the Northeast corridor, we’re talking about half the country’s population, nevermind globally.”

Bucky wavered. “Terrorist?”

Fury took his question as a cue the situation was under control. He picked up the McDonald’s bag and scrounged leftover fries. “No manifesto, not a peep.”

Hill lowered her hands, a breeze billowing the burqa around her like a dark ghost. “We’ve moved the lab from upstate back into Stark Tower for now. We needed an emergency central location for collaborators.”

 _Repeat the safe harbor part_ , Natasha asked. After a certain number of high-risk high-urgency scenarios, one learned to focus on the fine print.

Fury wiped off grease. “Well, some folks have realized we have a national resource that might advance the research effort.”

“The serum.”

“We need a blood sample, or two.” Hill glanced between Bucky and Steve. “In exchange, the US — and the US only — turns a blind eye. It's all hands on deck for law and order enforcement.”

“I want it in writing, officially on file.” Bucky clicked on the safety and decided all at once. 

They weren't lying about the infection and how many people it was hurting; he'd heard the latest on BBC and CNN. Even the local Wakandan channels had started coverage. The serum would help and he wasn't selfish enough to deny it. But he was going to regret this. That was always the outcome when dealing with the government. At least this time he might try to mitigate the exposure, as if a written agreement on file wasn't as flimsy as a handshake. He could pretend this time would be different.

Fury waved a hand. “Done.”

Steve chewed his lip, brow furrowed. “You know I’m on board. But I don’t think Tony’s going to welcome us with open arms.”

 _He will if there’s no choice_ , Natasha replied.

“Frankly, I don’t give a shit about you all’s situation,” Fury said. “I’m trying to keep several million folks, innocent civilians, alive. Now I didn’t fly out to the middle of the butt fuck desert to talk you through your feelings. I want a decision.”

Steve turned to Sam, who nodded. 

Bucky holstered the Sig. 

_I’m in_ , Nat muttered.

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

“Oh, we’re taking your ride. The local flight out here was hell.”

***

Bucky switched off his overhead light in the quinjet and the darkness enveloped him, the chalky remains of a protein bar dinner stuck in his mouth. The cockpit dashboard controls were a medley of soft greens and reds. Lightening flickered far off in the distance outside, across the Atlantic. Only hours earlier he had a different idea of where his life could be headed. Now he didn’t know what the fuck was going on, as usual. He hadn’t expected to set foot in New York City as anything other than a corpse or a prisoner, but here he was, circling back to the beginning with Steve. The universe had a sense of humor. Random, inherently meaningless, but funny. 

He held in his lap the briefing files from Fury with a red stamped STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL across the manila binder. The lack of intel was absurd. Point of origin appeared to be in Greenwich, an unknown vector, unknown Patient Zero. No link to terrorism, aliens, magical sorcerers, or mutants — the more time Bucky spent in this strange future, the longer the menagerie of possibilities grew. The military had set a cordon around Manhattan and issued a mandatory quarantine, as if thousands hadn't already used the airports and train stations. Disease progression was swift and cruel.

The white noise of the engine was a soothing hum, navigation on autopilot and several hours until they reached the States. The ragtag team around him slumbered, except the ever-vigilant Natasha in front, whose red hair glowed in the pool of her overhead light. And from the sound, Sam, who sighed heavily across from Bucky and checked his cellphone again, a little blue square of light.

“Worse signal here than Wakanda,” he said, when he noticed Bucky still awake.

“Family?”

“Sister and two nephews in Harlem. Haven’t seen them in a while, now with all this going down…”

Bucky searched for something reassuring to say, but maybe that was a skill people lost if they didn’t use it enough. “Sorry.”

Sam tapped his phone and put it away. “Nothing I can do about it up here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in the universal sign of an oncoming headache. “So distract me, Barnes. You leaving Wakanda. Didn’t really finish our conversation.”

“Yeah, I left Wakanda.” Discussing the subject felt like an insurmountable task at the moment. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. To his dismay, Sam persisted.

“Because you wanted to follow Steve?”

He shot a glance to where Natasha worked on a puzzle book and surely listened. “See how well it went for me in '45. Look, you don't have a problem following Steve.”

“You know there's nothing, uh, going on between Steve and I, right?” Sam leaned forward. “I mean, I'd be flattered, but it's not like that now. Think he's a one guy or gal type of guy.”

“I know that,” Bucky hissed, desperately uncomfortable. His hands clenched around the briefing file and the left side crumpled.

Sam eyed him. “You see him coming apart at the seams too?”

Bucky studied his boots. For all Sam's kind intentions, he was like an ant pinned under a magnifying glass.

“Yeah, okay. All I’m saying is, it’s okay to put yourself first. Have your own life, let go of the war. It’s not an idea to be guilty about. And it's a damn bit better than trying to fix someone else's life. That shit never works.”

“Nobody on this plane follows that advice.”

Sam frowned. “Ouch. I see you there. I’ve been working on it myself.”

“No offense.” Bucky grasped for a well-meaning phrase and settled on: “I'm just not gonna talk about everything, Wilson.”

“I get it. But when you’re ready, whatever it is, you got people who want to help, you know?”

He knew, and it was a meager silver lining. “Let’s survive this latest shit storm first.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody else says too.”

***

Natasha paused her crossword puzzle and rested her head against the seat. Across the small aisle, Steve slumped as he dozed. How the man could fall asleep on planes was beyond her guess. When Steve’s face went calm and peaceful, the frowns and furrows of recent years relaxed and he almost looked like the skinny boy from the photos. She wondered if Bucky missed the old Steve, or if, like herself, there was no allowable room for sadness for the past. Natasha cracked open a door of introspection, only a fraction. She was necessarily a lone operator, her inner life guarded from even the closest teams, the apartness a status she had reconciled long ago. Natasha envied their connection with a tight pain she didn’t think she still carried. She touched the golden arrow at her neck. _Be good for him_ , she wanted to say. Instead she wrote in nine down.

***

Bucky drifted into a blissful dreamless sleep past the Azores because when he next woke it was to cold morning sunlight and several voices starting at once. Sam answered his phone in hushed urgent tones while Fury slipped on a headset to reply to what Bucky assumed was air traffic control, meaning their cloaking was off. Maria, Natasha and Steve were deep in a conversation that was making Steve look stubborn, so Tony or the government or both. Bucky considered closing his eyes again, his stomach a nervous tight knot. He ran a thumb over the kimoyo bead bracelet: Breathe. 

He got up and worked out the kinks from sleeping upright in a plane for six hours. Outside the cockpit window it was a clear early winter day on the approach to Lady Liberty and, beyond her, Stark Tower, formerly Avengers Tower.

Military boats and two aircraft carriers crammed into the harbor. Helicopters hovered like flies. But it was New York. Bucky’s throat constricted as his eyes sought the familiar places. There was the Chrysler building, and the spire of the Empire State, Central Park, the same as before. The span of the Brooklyn bridge on a day like this, he’d crossed it so many times in just this weather, he could taste the mix of saltwater and cigarette paper. 

He was consumed by a sharp longing for home, for his ma and sisters, the way the city had been a century earlier. It was the homecoming he'd never gotten after the war, far too late to be anything but bittersweet. A prickle of déjà vu and he knew the Soldier had seen the sleek modern condominiums and the layout of the Financial District. A phantom pain twinged in the left arm. He tried to cram all his emotions into a small dark box in the corner of his mind, to sort through them later. He was so tired of hurting from the past.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No plan survives first contact.

The graceful glass slopes of Stark Tower resolved from the skyline and Steve noticed the old Avengers logo was gone, a faint outline the only clue it had been there at all, part of the slow but sure sale process. A STRIKE team surrounded the landing pad at the Tower. Some welcome party. Steve scowled and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets, wishing he was in his tac suit. You're here to help the civilians, he reminded himself. Bury the hatchet on the bad blood.

Fury addressed them as the ramp opened to a gust of frigid wind. “Everybody stay cool.”

Sure. Steve's scowl deepened as he picked out Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross among those assembled, joined by another suited man he didn’t recognize. And Tony. 

The STRIKE team kept them in their sights and Steve crossed his arms over his plain button-down as the sharp New York cold pricked his eyes. He would've enjoyed the familiar view more if it weren't for the circumstances.

Fury did a cursory round of handshakes: “Mr. Secretary. Director Mackenzie. Stark.”

“Fury,” Ross returned, as though he’d bitten into the world’s sourest lemon. He pulled up his coat collar as another gust blew across the helipad. “You got the latest briefing?”

Steve stepped forward. “We’re here to help.”

“Thanks for clarifying, this time,” Tony replied and matched Steve's posture. He was exhausted behind his sunglasses, beard untrimmed. Well, Steve had never imagined this would be pleasant. Maybe Tony had trashed the burner phone.

“This isn’t a dick-measuring contest, so let’s all get to business.” Director Mackenzie rolled his eyes and Steve noticed the SHIELD badge.

So this was the new boss. He still wasn't sure what happened to Coulson; Fury had only mentioned a retirement to Tahiti. It would take more than a well-tailored suit to restore his trust in SHIELD.

Ross unsnapped his briefcase to reveal what looked like stapler guns and several computer chips. “The President requested tracking for the duration of quarantine to ensure compliance with our terms. You understand.”

The sheer amount of firepower trained on them dissuaded Steve from punching Ross. Always a fucking catch. 

“Oh, the President requested?” he repeated.

Before Ross could retort, Mackenzie held up a hand. “It’s temporary. Given the chaos, we had to soothe a few nerves for safe harbor. All your documentation’s approved, on the record.”

Hill nodded and checked her phone. “We have it, sir.”

“You know any of us could remove those chips in a second,” Natasha said.

“Of course, Agent Romanoff.” Ross’s mustache twitched. “Consider it a mutual safeguard. We lose your signal, you lose safe harbor.”

“So we don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Captain Rogers. You and the Winter Soldier belong on the Raft. Happy to send you there, express. Don’t mistake this for my idea.”

“Do you still go by Captain? Just curious,” Tony asked. Steve ignored him but Tony caught sight of Bucky’s new arm. “Vibranium upgrade, huh.”

“The deal is safe harbor for all,” Fury emphasized as one of the STRIKE team members prepped the chips for implant.

Steve had no leverage. He couldn’t refuse the serum's benefits to innocent people; he was at the mercy of whatever Ross and Director Mackenzie demanded. The sooner this was all over, the better. He rolled up his sleeve and held out his wrist. The STRIKE agent triggered the device and he felt a pinch as the chip lodged subdermally. It was a tiny square. Sam grumbled and surrendered his arm next.

“Any other last-minute surprises?” Steve asked as Natasha accepted the chipping. The more impassive she seemed the angrier she was.

“Yeah, we got twice as many in the hospitals as yesterday,” Mackenzie shot back. Steve could see why Fury might like him.

“Steady now,” the STRIKE agent muttered to Bucky, reaching out like approaching a restless horse. Steve loomed over the agent. Bucky tensed as the chip breached his flesh without incident, then jerked his arm back to bundle into his jacket. 

The STRIKE unit stood down and Ross latched his briefcase with satisfaction, sending the unit into a flurry of activity as two helicopters chopped in overhead. Mackenzie plugged his ear to make a call.

“We’re headed out to meet an old friend, handle a few sensitive evacs," Hill explained.

Fury raised a finger at Steve, Tony, and Bucky. “You kids play nice. This is bigger than all your shit.”

“Yeah, _mi casa es su casa_ ,” Tony shouted over the din of the helicopters, motioning them to follow to the elevators.

Steve sighed as the doors closed with a cheery ding, cutting off the military scene. Bucky fixated on a floor tile while Natasha studied the ceiling panels. Sam drummed his fingers against his sidearm. They couldn’t fight like this the whole time. Fury was right: There were higher stakes. 

Steve spoke to Tony's reflection in the twin doors and sincerely tried to temper his tone. “Why didn’t you call? Millions of people--”

“Could get sick with a brain disease. What, you’re Florence Nightingale? Not every emergency needs you, Cap.”

“Not here as Captain America, Tony.”

“Right, you're here as a pain in my ass.”

Sam clapped his hands together. “So, is Pepper around?”

“No.”

“What about that kid with the spider—”

“No.”

They rode the elevator another ten floors in silence.

***

The Stark Tower lab hummed with scientists, all of whom were pained and tired. Steve remembered this lab from years ago but the layout was now haphazard, the result of cleaning out the entire floor for sale and re-constructing it within a week. Desks vanished under reams of data printouts while holographic displays flickered in and out above rows of supercomputing equipment, one of which had spilled out a nest of wires and was being serviced by a technician. A knot of researchers vehemently discussed an annotated screen of numbers and letters. Half the floor was sealed off and plastered with biohazard warning symbols, intersecting circles on orange. Beyond the glass partition and a blue tent marked DECON, scientists in hazmat respiration suits shuffled between benches. Steve thought of the moon landing videos.

A woman emerged from behind a tower of paperwork, harried and grim. “Thank god,” she said.

“Yeah, even got Yoko here,” Tony thumbed back at Bucky. “This is our team lead, Dr. Jemma Simmons, agent of SHIELD. Dr. Cho’s leads the second shift downstairs. Got a CliffNotes version?” He noticed the supercomputer technician and veered off. “Hey, hey don’t touch, my robot just rewired that.”

Simmons cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses, a second pair of lab goggles perched on her head. “Obviously it’s an epidemic,” she explained, rubbing bloodshot eyes. “But not the typical viral or bacterial source.”

Natasha frowned. “What else is there?”

“You’ve heard of mad cow disease? Protein-based with viral properties. We’re still working on a clean isolation with the CDC and NIH.” Simmons gestured to the lab sub-room where two moonsuits loaded vials of blood into a machine.

“So where'd this come from? The briefing file sucked.”

Simmons shrugged and retrieved a massive thermos from her desk. “Could be sporadic. The first wave of patients were from Greenwich and amplified through commuter hubs. It's not a wide initial dispersion, or targeted.”

“But you can figure out a cure, right?” Steve watched as the moonsuits choreographed a painstaking decontamination process.

“Eventually, yes. We don't have eventually. We have days.” 

Simmons pulled over a holographic display from the adjacent desk and played an animated version of the photos from the briefing file. A cross-section of a brain scan wasted away, gray matter disintegrating to white space. 

“Post-infection degeneration is rapid. We’ve advised heavy sedation to slow the cranial inflammation process, but it’s projected to lead to drug rationing by the end of next week.”

Steve thought of the hundreds of patients overwhelming hospitals and realized he was only beginning to grasp the magnitude. This was a country he still loved at its core because of the people. Those people were suffering now, and Tony was right; here was something he couldn’t fight with his fists. It was an invisible invasion that could spread through homes and families.

“All this tech isn’t helping?” Sam asked, bewildered. 

The loop of the brain scan replayed a third time and Bucky turned away. Natasha slid the hologram screen down and off.

Simmons’s expression pinched. “We’re analyzing as fast as we can, data-sharing with the best Japanese and Wakandan labs, pharma companies. You should know, normal timelines for this kind of effort is six months.”

Six months. Steve followed the potential scenarios out in his head and swallowed tightly. NYC was a perfect epicenter. He remembered his ma's stories from the Spanish flu.

“Mind if I…?” Simmons produced two sterilized syringes.

Right, the whole point of this trip: serum samples. The one thing he could offer. Steve drew his own blood and Bucky did the same, finding the vein with rote efficiency. The syringes filled with what had fashioned them into weapons of war, with what others had killed to replicate.

***

The next morning, Steve splashed cold water on his face and studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He ran a hand along the bare jawline, a requisite for the ventilation masks. Captain America had found him again. The subdermal chip rubbed against the sink lip as he toweled off stray hairs. He padded out into the living room, another part of a former home since-abandoned, and finally took in the bleak view.

The hard winter sun bleached the cityscape gray, including the sky. Sirens flashed in fits below. An indistinguishable emergency announcement repeated under the constant drone of helicopters. The wind whistled around the Tower's corner and a knot of gloom settled on his shoulders. Bucky’s figure shifted forward in the window glass and Steve was again struck by how still and quiet he could be now. Clean-shaven, in the fuzzed reflection he might have been twenty years young but for the sharper lines wrought from sadness, anger, loss. Steve wondered if he looked the same way. Bucky stepped close and Steve leaned back enough to share his weight, the whisper of Bucky’s breath against his ear. The sure knowledge the room was under surveillance hung unspoken. They'd crashed in Steve's old apartment suite last night after a dinner of frozen pizzas and Bucky had spent a solid two hours ascertaining FRIDAY's blind spots. 

Steve let the minutes pass, content to redraw the skyline in his mind’s eye and share this space. Bucky softly hummed a few broken bars of a Glenn Miller tune.

“Chattanooga Choo Choo,” Steve murmured.

Bucky sighed in recognition as another floating half-shard of memory came back to roost.

Steve’s phone jangled and the moment fled. “It’s Fury.”

“Christ, I hope he didn’t forget something in Marrakech.”

Fury snapped over the line. "Rogers, we need a team downtown, underground, stat. You up for it?"

Steve glanced at Bucky, who shrugged. "That's what we're here for."

"Good. Got patchy blackouts through Chelsea and Times Square."

Steve paused. "You want us to fix an electrical glitch?" Utility repair was an unexpected request. Bucky snorted.

"Do I sound like fucking ConEd, Rogers? We got three, maybe four mutants in the sewer tunnels trying to slip out of here like Harriet Tubman with Typhoid Mary. Special ops escort will pick you up in thirty, sharp."

Steve scrapped his plans for a leisurely breakfast.

***

Sam tested the zipper he'd mended on his tac suit and Natasha threw back a tiny shot of espresso she'd procured from the coffee bar upstairs. Steve fiddled with his phone charger at the outlet by the Tower lobby security desk. The emergency messages replayed outside again like broken records, echoing down the emptied streets.

Bucky held the respirator face mask and logically, objectively, knew it was white and light blue and rather soft with elastic straps and supplied by a benign supply company that also manufactured post-it notes. But now he had to put this mask over his mouth and nose. This wasn’t Halloween and he wasn’t going to shoot Steve (again) or Stark (again) if he put on the mask. Right? Wear it or stay sheltered in place.

He pulled the straps over his head and adjusted the mask to get a tight seal. Breathe. His exhale was humid and coffee-scented. That was different. He slipped a glove over his left hand and tugged his jacket sleeve down. People were paranoid enough without Winter Soldier conspiracy theories.

“Bucky?” Steve checked in, muffled through his own mask. He had a worried crease between his eyebrows.

Bucky nodded curtly.

“Well comms are gonna be a tin can,” Sam said, fitting his mask.

“Keep it short and simple,” Natasha replied. She plugged in a micro USB to her phone and soon all of them had an interactive map grid of multicolored squiggles.

Steve peered at the image. “Jackson Pollock.”

An Army Jeep screeched to a halt outside and a man in a gas mask and fatigues jumped out to meet them in the lobby. 

“Welcome back stateside, sir,” he saluted to Steve. “I’m your ride.”

Manhattan was a ghost town. Traffic lights flashed through their usual cycles, oblivious to the lack of traffic. Ads and billboards all displayed different versions of the same graphics and public service instructions: a 1-800 number, a health emergency website, 24/7 shelter-in-place strictly enforced. Clustered assortments of military, NYPD and EMS vehicles gathered in isolated hives of activity next to Red Cross and FEMA depots, stacked with pallets of food and supplies. Yellow tents announced QUARANTINE across intersections. The occasional siren competed for airtime with the announcements they’d heard all day and night. 

They passed a brief commotion in front of a brownstone: an ambulance, moonsuits, and several National Guardsmen in gas masks subdued a screaming elderly woman in her nightgown. 

“Enforced isolation protocols,” the soldier yelled by way of explanation. He continued, holding up two fingers. “High risk at two points, you saw the maps?”

“We got 11th at 5th Ave and 23rd at 9th,” Sam shouted back.

“Can’t get a hold of the steam department, gas guys don’t know shit about steam, electric guys don’t know shit about gas or steam. You get a real mess down there, who the hell knows what’ll blow.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

“You find anyone, and I mean anyone, we got a team ready for eval following your GPS pings. Assume infection, period.”

Bucky checked his phone, where four glowing dots moved in tandem; their tracking signals. The Jeep pulled up past a series of shuttered storefronts, next to a huddle of military personnel with squawking radios. 

Steve fixed his comms receiver and gave a thumbs up to Sam and Bucky as he jumped out to follow Natasha. 

Natasha's voice came over the comms channel: _Alpha Team go. Happy spelunking._

***

Bucky slid the manhole cover aside and rested his hands on his hips. A noxious odor floated up as the ladder descended into dank darkness. He checked the map of squiggles. Nothing interesting at this junction, as far as he could tell. They were close to the alleged outbreak source, Greenwich Village, between the two Square parks. Sure, this might've been a fun little urban adventure back when he was a teenager.

“Missing Wakanda yet?” Sam elbowed him and tapped old dirty snow from his boots.

“Bravo Team go.”

Bucky clambered down after Sam, his headlamp flashing on grime and fleeing cockroaches. Half-frozen sewage splashed around his ankles. It smelled like actual shit. Probably was. Their headlamp beams faded into the tunnel on either side and sent a rat scurrying for cover. He glanced down at the map again: two dots blinked at their 9th and 6th Ave access point, with two more dots at 24th & 8th. 

“One over, two up is our risk point.”

***

Steve yanked away the pitted paneling to expose a nest of fried electrical cables. The fizzled tang of burnt wiring overcame that of raw sewage. Natasha nudged him aside and inspected the mess, taking several photos to upload above-ground. 

“Not a rat,” Steve said.

“Bravo, looks like a massive localized power surge. Think Fury’s right about someone down here.”

_Roger, Alpha. Watch your back._

Natasha brushed a roach from her arm. “No way to fix this without shutting down another couple blocks worth of electric.”

Steve pulled up the sewer tunnel schematic. Frying the system at two random local points made repair more time-consuming than, say, an accessible power station. But it wasn't catastrophic damage, so why do it? 

Wait. 

Were they really random? 

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Distraction?”

“No, cover.” 

He traced a line from Bucky and Sam’s blinking dots to their own. Studied what was nearby. He could be pulling on straws but… East River, Hudson River, the Harbor: all those outlets meant a long swim in freezing water, past coast guard patrols. The bridges and traffic tunnels were heavily barricaded and monitored by the military. That left staying underground. 

“The North River train tunnels into New Jersey. Take out the lights and the third rail, exit through a manhole before Weehawken.” He tapped an intersecting squiggle on the sewer map, northwest of their blinking location, along the same trajectory. “Track access by the Hudson Yards subway. Bravo, this is Alpha, moving to 34th and 10th.”

_Copy that, wait for backup._

"Negative, we’re losing time."

_Fuck you too, Alpha. Heading west._

***

Bucky muttered a litany of complaints under his breath as he forged ahead through the muck and dripping gloom, resisting the urge to unload a clip at the rats that fled his headlamp. Were city blocks always this long? Christ, it was foul. The toe of his left sock grew distressingly damp.

“You haven't seen _It_ yet, right?” Sam asked from behind him.

“Seen what?”

“ _It_ , the movie.”

“What movie?”

“You know, with the clown — Nevermind.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and hunched forward as the tunnel ceiling lowered. Grime trickled down his scalp.

 _No trains today_ , Steve said over the comms, followed by a gradual crescendoing feedback. 

Bucky tapped the comms unit. “Come in Alpha, do you copy?”

“Think we lost them,” Sam replied. 

They paused in the sludge, heads ducked, and listened to the whine of the feedback. It set Bucky's teeth on edge. It sounded too much like wipe prep. The hair rose on the back of his neck and Bucky checked their cell reception: non-existent.

“Alpha, do you copy?” Bucky repeated, met only with empty frequency.

“I don't like it,” Sam said. “Let's get moving, this tunnel's giving me heebie jeebies.”

Bucky agreed and picked up the pace. The tunnel began to slope upwards again and he figured they must be approaching Penn Station. A steam pipe along their side gave a loud clang and Sam cursed, his headlamp beam jumping. The steam pipe clanked again, sharper.

“Should hang a left at the next —”

The tunnel shuddered and bits of ancient brick dust rumbled down.

"What the —”

Bucky cut off again as he threw himself in front of Sam, shielded with the left arm in time to block whatever the hell was flying down the tunnel towards them. Bucky recognized a twisted metal door before the force of the explosion flung them backwards and sideways into a mix of concrete and brickwork. It was over in a minute, leaving him with the distinct sensation of suffocation as dust eddied in the small tunnel and past his headlamp. 

“Sam!”

“Yeah, I’m here.” 

A hand extended in the fog of dust and Sam extricated himself from the crumbled portion of sewer wall. 

“What the fuck was that?”

"Alpha Team, copy?" 

The comms unit was silent. The dead line fizzed. No answer, no answer. Bucky coughed into the mask and immediately inhaled back the same stale expelled air. Sam waved through the dust cloud and they inched towards the origin of the flying door explosion, guns drawn. Bucky’s eyes stung and watered with the debris, like trying to see through a blizzard. Another shower of dust shook loose and Bucky spared a thought for the structural integrity of the tunnel. Buried alive in shit sounded like the worst possible ending. 

Sam stopped short in front of him. “Fuck.”

The tunnel caved where the sewer should’ve connected into part of Penn Station. If there had been a door, it was long gone, replaced with a wall of rubble collapsed from street level. 

“Steve! Natasha!” Sam shouted at the rock pile. Nothing.

Bucky grabbed his phone. “The trackers.”

They both brought up the sewer map. Two blinking lights, three blocks from the Hudson in the rail tunnel. Bucky stared at them but the lights didn’t move. Fucking Steve, couldn’t even wait for backup, he thought at least four times in a furious panicked mantra. The lights weren’t moving and it was over half a mile to the last exit ladder. They shot into motion.

***

Steve opened the access door and, as expected, the train tunnel electricity was out. Natasha balanced in the small space between rails and wall, their headlamps drawing criss-cross patterns over the tracks.

“Hope you’re right about the third rail, not in the mood for barbeque,” she whispered.

“No trains today,” he said, then winced as the comms receiver gave feedback into his ear.

“Someone’s here.” Natasha pointed at a curve in the tracks ahead and took out her Glock. Assume infection.

“Hello?” Steve held up his hands and peered into the shadows, the comms still whining high.

Someone tilted pale and thin into the headlamp beam. Good god, Steve thought with a jolt, he’s way past the point of infection.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Natasha said and kept her gun low. 

The man looked like every other young kid right out of college, except for the fever contorting his body in half. He groaned and an arc of bright electricity snapped between his hands. Natasha startled in warning.

“We can help you.” Steve stayed steady. They wouldn’t leave the guy down here to suffer with rats and roaches. No way he was getting to New Jersey; he’d barely gone a mile since blowing the electrical boxes in the morning. They'd be lucky to get him to hospital for a few hours.

“They're sick,” the man slurred and looked behind him, where Steve realized three others were sitting. “We have to go, have to go.”

“Can my friend and I come a little closer to see how everyone's doing? Is that okay?”

He appeared to focus and refocus several times. Steve summoned his most heartfelt Captain America expression.

“Okay.”

Steve crept forward on the tracks and Natasha followed. The guy had sweated through his shirt, a long-sleeved souvenir from a local bar, and hair clung to his forehead. The whites of his eyes were clouded red, and he flinched from their headlamps with stuttered incoordination. There was a sour odor. Steve knelt to see the three other figures and sucked in a sharp breath through his mask.

“Steve?” Natasha asked. She held the bodies in her headlamp beam.

He looked up at the man. It would be too late. “You need medical attention. Please, we can help.”

“Have to go,” he repeated with an absent affect that chilled Steve. He thought of the degenerating brain scans. A rat scuttled past.

“You're dying,” Steve insisted. The others were already dead, he didn't say. They didn’t have time to coax and cajole. “We'll take you to the hospital, no one’s going to hurt you.” 

Steve reached out a gloved hand. That was his mistake.

Electricity surged from the man's palms, sputtering in and out as it arced, ozone in the air. It was too erratic and pure for his sickly state and he stared dumbly at the coiled and twisting voltage.

Natasha raised her gun as the electricity intensified. “Steve?”

“Don’t —”

The current leapt out of control, snapped against the train tracks, blew out an underground transformer, and jumped to the tunnel’s gas line before Steve could do little more than turn to Natasha, her lips parting in realization.

***

A flash of heat, then crushing pressure.

***

He had the strangest dream. He was numb, he was in pain. The darkness was total.

The ice. 

He breathed — What.

A wet pressure lifted from his face and light appeared behind his eyelids. His ears rang. Urgent voices yelled as if from a great distance. He opened his glued-down eyes and the voices intensified. Shadows moved over him. He coughed and knew he had a broken rib. 

The kid. Natasha. It hit him like a truck. Oh fuck, oh no no no.

“Nat, where’s Nat?” he wheezed at the nearest shadow, who resolved into a medic in one of those hazmat moonsuits. She ignored him and instead worked with two others to help him up from… the middle of the street? 

A crater, oh god.

“Infected, incoming!” someone shouted. 

The yellow QUARANTINE tent. No, this was all wrong. Natasha — there'd been no time to react, he hadn't been able to shield her. The street was a fucking crater.

“I’m not infected,” he groaned, lifting himself on an elbow as another EMS worker hovered to take his pulse and shout vitals to an assistant. They too had moonsuits, and they pushed him onto the stretcher. A medic wiped his face with a wet cloth and it came away bloody. 

His mask was off. But he didn’t get sick, not anymore. He wanted to explain: it’s fine, don’t worry about me, but he still felt like he’d gone a few rounds with a sledgehammer. Couldn't they rewind ten minutes before? The before was always so close yet irrevocable. 

“Natasha’s down there, you have to —”

“Already found her, Cap, she’s gonna make it,” the medic said. Steve had a fraction of a second to feel relief before the next sentence. “Look, you both got fried brains to the face from a very dead, very sick guy.”

The kid had been so confused, scared. Steve felt a heavy stone of regret in his gut. There was nothing to do. He hoped the man had a family who would miss him and think of him, and whoever else had been down there. Give a proper burial, if there were remains. He should tell Fury. 

The medic shone a light into his eyes. “Best practice is immediate sedation. Brain inflammation starts? You’re fucked. What year it is?”

Of all questions. “2018.”

“And do you know where you are?”

“Hudson Yards.”

“There’s a risk of low blood pressure and heart complications with sedation. There’s a risk of death without sedation. Understand?”

Steve thought of the file briefing. Natasha was infected. This was really happening. How? He should’ve waited for backup, like Bucky said. He didn’t have time for this, he wasn’t sick, not with the serum. Right? 

“Yes.”

The medic assistant took his special ops ID badge and copied down the information for paperwork. Steve craned his neck to watch as the medic prepped an IV. 

“Do you consent to immediate sedation?”

Steve tried to sit up again; this had all been quite the day, but he had to get back. “I’m not infected.”

He let the medic press him down as a sharp headache bloomed. He didn't get headaches. “Sir, you a hundred percent sure? Because if you’re wrong, you expose civilians. Every minute we wait is another minute that thing has in your brain.”

Was he a hundred percent sure? Maybe a precaution was logical. Just in case. Bucky and Sam would find them soon, sedation was temporary. He’d lose a couple hours, then try to figure out how to fix this mess, as if he could fix the four victims. 

Okay, he sighed, exasperated. “Tell Barnes and Wilson there was a real sick kid in the tunnel. Wasn’t his fault.”

***

Bucky sprinted to the police cordon on 34th; beyond it, EMS responders crawled out of a massive crater. Dust and floating bits of debris still choked the air as a generous crowd of armed National Guard assembled on scene. He saw a flash of red hair: Natasha. 

“Alive,” a voice called up from the crater, answering a question he couldn’t get past his mouth. “Put her in the other one to Presby, we got infected blood all over and four deceased.”

Deceased. He struggled to breathe in the dust-clogged mask and grabbed the nearest cop like a lifeline, knowing he must seem deranged. 

“Steve, did you see St — Cap — a man, blonde hair, blue eyes, tall?”

“Woah, woah, pal,” the cop warned with a gloved hand on his sidearm. “Ambulance just left for Lower Presby.”

Right, the hospital, Steve was hurt and he was going to the hospital, Bucky was going to the hospital, he spun around and knocked straight into Sam. The door slammed on the second ambulance with Natasha and sped away, siren blaring as if traffic was still an obstacle.

“What the fuck,” Sam gasped. A bright yellow body bag with BIOHAZARD stamped on it lowered into the crater. “Steve, Nat?”

“Alive, alive.” Bucky cast about wildly and visualized a route to Lower Presbyterian. “Hospital, c’mon.” 

He grabbed Sam by the elbow to propel him into an NYPD patrol car with keys in the ignition. Get a big enough explosion and people did dumb things like leave their cars idling.

“You can drive?” Sam buckled in as Bucky reversed down a side street and squealed around a corner, sending a coffee cup flying into the window.

Bucky accelerated onto West Street towards the spire of the trade center, the semi-familiar Hudson River Park a blur on their right. He blew past red lights and knots of additional emergency support teams staged across Greenwich and Tribeca. Don't hit anyone, don't miss the turn, don't even fucking think about worst-case scenarios. Bucky forced his grip loose on the wheel before Sam found himself in another steering quandary. Meanwhile, Sam dug around in his pocket as his ringtone jangled.

“You better have good news, Simmons.”

On the other end of the line, Simmons leaned back from the microscope where the latest blood sample lysed to black. “Afraid not.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first quality of a soldier is constancy in enduring fatigue and hardship.
> 
> — Napoleon Bonaparte

Bucky slouched into the flimsy waiting room chair, left hand warping the armrest. Sam was talking to the harried receptionist after directing Bucky to sit the fuck down, right now. He'd gotten an emergency contact call from the admitting doctor while parking the patrol car. Well, really they'd abandoned it curbside, but he'd shifted to park. 

Natasha was infected. 

Steve was — Don’t think it.

Two riot police in gas masks guarded the ward entrance: Lower Presby was a designated isolation hospital. He stared at an abstract watercolor and the dust-covered leaves of a fake potted plant. Simmons’s tinny speakerphone voice echoed in circles: Steve’s serum sample didn’t demonstrate immunity. He was susceptible to infection. _It was wrong, it was a false negative, run the test again._ Already ran it twice. We have your sample to test, maybe?

Bucky crumpled the armrest, moved the hand to his lap, and crushed it against the bones of his right.

He looked around the waiting room and realized with a start it was crowded. Next of kin. A woman clutched a wide-eyed toddler in a too-big facemask beside an elderly man wearing a Christmas sweater and a stunned expression. Some fixated on the television with their cellphones out to compare and trade news. All wore the mandatory masks, each absorbed in private dramas of fear and grief. To them, Steve Rogers wasn't the most important person in this hospital, not by a long shot. But he'd been their best hope.

“Barnes!” Sam called and he rocked up so fast the chair wrenched from its screws.

A woman in green hospital scrubs spoke to Sam, stethoscope slung around her neck, and she turned to include Bucky. “We have the protocol in place, blood and serum samples incinerated right after testing. Cap —” She caught herself and lowered her voice. “He’s burning through the sedatives. I don’t know how long we can keep him under. Couple days.”

Bucky recalled the briefing file: fever, dementia, wasting. "A couple days?"

“I got a hospital full of patients who need those drugs too." She glanced at the clock and passed a clipboard to the receptionist. "Visitation is ten minutes, one of the guards will be back to escort you.”

Steve wasn’t supposed to get sick these days. 

“Hey man, Barnes. I need you here. Barnes. C’mon, let’s go sit.”

They settled in the waiting room, beside a man in fuzzy house slippers tearing tissue pieces. An elderly woman asked if they would join the prayer group in the chapel; no, thank you. Faint aromas of carpet cleaner and bleach lingered. Brick dust coated strands of his hair. He ran a finger against the kimoyo bead bracelet. 

Breathe.

“They’re gonna fight this. I know what Simmons said, but he got the flu in ‘28, right after his birthday, and we all thought that was it, I mean his ma was a wreck.” 

This wasn’t Steve’s first round with a different type of battle, and Bucky had to believe it wasn’t his last. Sam clasped his shoulder in the same grounded, solid grip as Steve.

***

Natasha had a massive black eye and traces of dried blood in her ears and hairline. One leg was elevated in an air cast. Ointment covered her burnt neck and gauze bandaging extended beneath the hospital gown. The beep of the heart monitor and rise of her chest was regular, and a tube taped into her chapped lips. 

Sam laid a gloved hand over her chipped, polished nails. “Hang in there, Nat.” He wiped the old blood with an alcohol swab.

Bucky forced himself to confront the other bed. It hit him in the gut. He sank to a crouch and rested his forehead against the cool bed railing, closing his eyes. In, out. He followed the IV bag drip line to where it met Steve’s wrist above the damn chip tracker, the wire of the heart rate monitor to the clip on his index finger. The tube where it disappeared in his throat. None of it looked right, not on that body.

“Oh, pal,” he whispered and carefully touched Steve’s forehead. The thick biohazard gloves blunted the sensation, like wax. The vibranium sensors registered nothing. 

_I’m here, please wake up, please don’t leave me_ , all piled and caught behind his lips. 

He thought of Steve visiting Peggy those last few months in the nursing home, a whole other life unspooled in his absence and ending in his presence. Live a hundred years and never enough time. 

“We’re gonna get you out of this,” he said, and hated the quaver in it, hated the absence of reply.

***

Bucky jerked awake and fumbled for his bearings. Sam’s face loomed large before him. He was in the hospital waiting room. Night had fallen. 

“What’s wrong,” he asked on reflex, because something was always wrong and Sam was distinctly concerned.

“I gotta check up on my sis. I hate to leave things like this but.” His voice caught. “It’s my nephews. I gotta go.” Sam ducked his head to the crook of his elbow and Bucky again wished he could naturally offer comfort.

“What can I do?" he asked instead, rising.

Sam swallowed thickly. “Anything happens, you let me know.” He pointed at Bucky as he zipped his dust-covered jacket. “Go back to the Tower, get a meal and a shower.”

Bucky verged on arguing but his traitorous stomach growled. When was the last time he’d eaten? What the hell time was it now? Sam was already gone. Bucky rubbed his eyes and blearily checked his phone for a host of missed group texts. Pending more test results, was the latest from Simmons, followed by a poop emoji from Stark. He glanced at the TV screen in the waiting room and wished he hadn’t: Death toll rises, authorities urge calm. The Christmas sweater man snoozed upright. A woman wailed at the reception desk. 

He had to get out of here.

Bucky stepped into the frigid night and blinked. It was snowing, and generous billows of flakes gusted across the road. He headed uptown on foot. The special ops ID allowed him free rein, but he kept to the shadows and alleys out of habit. He didn’t want a confrontation, not now. 

A stiff wind pushed the icy snowflakes against his cheeks and into his jacket collar. The unceasing billboard public service announcements threw ghostly light shows across iced sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. High-rise apartment lights blinked, remote signs of civilian life. By the time he reached the Tower his joints were tight with damp cold.

The Tower doors slid open unprompted and Bucky guessed at least one person had tracked his progress from Presby. The lobby lights ticked on and a knee-high robot whirred to him. 

“You look like shit,” Tony Stark’s voice said. “Take off your clothes.”

Bucky finally pulled back his facemask, lungs gasping in thanks. “What?”

“Get naked, Barnes. Everything you’re wearing could be contaminated. Not taking any chances. We’ve got a decon shower but it’s easier to incinerate clothing.” The robot extended its arms and swiveled its head away.

Bucky sighed and quickly stripped behind the abandoned security counter, gooseflesh rising as he peeled off snow- and sweat-soaked layers, then gave them to a fucking robot. He kept his three knives and two guns in their holsters. The robot scooted away as the elevator dinged, and he backed into one of the elevator’s corners, Sig at the ready to protect his dignity. 

Christmas muzak piped in softly.

The doors slid open on the lab floor to reveal a blue tent with a drain in the middle and a jury-rigged system of six hoses. 

“Fucking can’t believe this,” Bucky said, in part to brace his frayed nerves.

“Barnes?” Simmons called, beyond the tent.

“Who else.”

“Sorry, I know it seems bad. It’s a mild decon solution. Pull the handle, it’ll just take a minute,” she said. “Got you a change of clothes in the anteroom.”

Bucky spotted the hanging shower handle and took a steadying breath. A minute, that’s all. C’mon, Barnes, keep it together. He pulled with grim finality.

The water was lukewarm, he thought in surprise as the spray hit him. 

The asset is prepped for maintenance. 

The asset is prepped for storage, the —

“Barnes?”

The water had shut off, and he shivered in the tent as the drain gurgled. Blue tent, right. Stark Tower. Decon. 

He shuffled to the anteroom, pulled on disturbingly soft sweatpants and an unfortunate Iron Man graphic t-shirt.

“So this sucks, right?” Stark asked by way of greeting. Bucky spied him bent over a lab bench’s microscope. A holoscreen with a giant 3D squiggle held the rapt attention of the clinical research team.

“I’d say so,” Bucky snapped. “The hospital wants to ration meds, this thing's still spreading, I just got hosed down naked like I’m fucking going back in cryo and all you’ve done is sit up here in your ivory tower with shit to show for it!” 

His voice raised of its own accord and he slammed the wrong fist down on the lab bench, part of which cracked off and clunked to the floor. The research team dropped their conversation and stared at the arm. It was the most he'd spoken to anyone.

Stark straightened, glasses perched on his forehead. “What the hell is this?” He gestured to the broken bench. “Ivory tower? I'm the last billionaire working in Manhattan, Tin Man. Here, have a Snickers bar, a cheeseburger, a cup of this coffee and shut up for a minute.”

Bucky slunk from the researchers’ stares to a desk littered with printouts and candy wrappers. He accepted a drink that smelled suspiciously like whiskey and tasted worse. It washed down a cold cheeseburger of unknown origin. Stark was fairly bouncing on his toes and Bucky looked into the black beverage. Was it poisoned?

“We think we got a lead,” Stark blurted. “Emphasis on the think. We gotta run it a second time to be sure. But I’m pretty sure. So, uh, congratulations.”

“What?”

“Turns out the guy who murdered my parents is part of the 5% of the sample population with immunity.” Stark poured a generous refill of the coffee-whiskey concoction into a mug emblazoned IRON MAN 10K FUN RUN. “Them’s the breaks, seems unfair, but I’ll take as much credit as possible.”

The Snickers bar churned in Bucky’s stomach, suddenly too sweet. “I... I thought the serum wasn’t immune?”

Simmons joined them, tablet in tow, and interjected with what Bucky considered misplaced enthusiasm. “Steve’s sample wasn’t! We saw a complete breakdown, no significant difference from most of the population.” She pulled up two videos. One had a time-lapse of writhing lysed cells, while in the other, captioned BARNES, the cells remained healthy. She smiled and it eased days of tension from her eyes. “We already shared the data with the CDC and our Wakandan team.”

“Not that we couldn’t parse it ourselves,” Stark clarified, opening a holoscreen schematic on the side.

“We’ve just got to confirm and isolate the protective cofactor.”

“And, you know, rapidly mass produce and administer a formulation of whatever the hell it is. God, I love a high-pressure engineering scenario.”

Bucky gulped the coffee-whiskey and it burned into his chest. Understandably appealing. What was all this but another spin on the merry-go-round of random happenstance? He'd long ago stopped trying to decipher a pattern to a cosmic grand plan. The newest revelation and its implications honed to this truth: He could help. Really help. That was important. All those people in the hospital, their families, friends… He owed it to them. It was what Steve would’ve done.

“So I'm immune. Okay," he said, and willed himself to stay calm, measured. There were practical concerns to address. "You gotta remove the arm first. I might have a bad reaction.”

Simmons tucked away the tablet. “I don’t understand?”

“You need me for testing. I’ll do it.”

“Oh! Ah, not like that.” Simmons blanched and rushed to correct him. “We have the material from your blood sample, and two locals with mild immunity.”

Stark snorted as he analyzed the schematic. “Yeah, no need to take your heart, Tin Man, thanks to this very awesome lab operation I’ve got funded here, and several brilliant Wakandan proteome bioengineers."

Oh, thank god. Bucky sank against the trash-cluttered desk.

"But I can still take the arm, if you'd like," Stark offered flippantly as he shuttered the holoscreen. Bucky tugged his shirt sleeve down.

“I know this has been… a long day,” Simmons said. She patted her lab coat pockets until she found her phone. “Ring back tomorrow morning— er, well, later this morning, and we’ll have a more complete picture.”

Bucky remembered the doctor’s warning: a couple days. The more this spread, the thinner the drug supply became. “How soon can you get a treatment ready?”

Simmons and Stark shared a look. Bucky found jarring traces of Howard, mostly in the eyes, the twist of the mouth. He'd watched this man's father beg for mercy. He felt a roil of shame and shoved it away. This wasn't about past regrets and it certainly wasn't about them.

“Well, usually I’d say it’s directly proportional to the amount of caffeine and amphetamines I ingest, but there’s a lot of unknown variables here.”

Simmons tried a smile again but failed. “As fast as we can.”

***

Bucky let the apartment door swing shut behind him and kept the lights off. He tread soundlessly to the bedroom and folded onto the single bare mattress like a collapsing house of cards. His weapons dug into his sides. He moved one gun and one knife under the bed. The red dot of FRIDAY’s surveillance blinked. 

He tried to summon Steve’s presence; imagined Steve living here, sleeping in this room, this space. Instead, there was a shade to his left, in the corner, they always went to the corners at night. His pulse thumped against the mattress. 

He was immune. 

So fucking typical of Steve to draw the short straw even with invincible super-serum. Meanwhile Bucky ticked along. Steve was the one who wanted to keep saving the world. Bucky considered his own desires relatively simple: make amends, keep an eye on Steve, and find a way to live as a fucked up centenarian with erectile dysfunction. Which, now that he thought about it, was stupendously unfair given his apparent biological benefits. Immune to a lethal mystery disease but the kicker was a flaccid cock ninety percent of the time. Seemed like a raw deal. He wished Steve were here to blush and stammer an embarrassed but coy rejoinder. He wished Steve were here at all, instead of sucking down a plastic tube to keep his lungs going while his brain staved off dementia, alone with Natasha in a hospital full of comatose souls like a fucking living graveyard. If this didn’t work out, then... Then he would take Steve somewhere quiet, peaceful, until the end. Sam might frown at that. So would his shrink. Check yourself before you start spiraling. 

He pulled his phone from a sweatpants pocket and set it next to him on the mattress. The last text was Fury an hour ago, urging caution and clear heads. Steve and Natasha were in the group chat. Bucky touched the kimoyo beads and closed his eyes.

He was in a HYDRA facility, the cement sterile basement familiar yet foreign. The asset was prepped for storage. The old model of the cryostasis chamber fastened to the wall, the metal chamber with its single porthole window, the pane crusted in frost and the padlocks sealed. It was already in use, where was the asset supposed to go, the asset was prepped for storage, the asset had no direction, panic welled up. 

The asset hauled back its metal arm and punched past the padlocks, the fogged hiss of nitrogen gas escaping the compromised chamber. The asset wrenched the door. It was Howard, frozen, shot dead. Then it was Steve, all the attendant tubes and vital organ monitors hooked into him. 

The asset was doing it all wrong, there was a revival protocol and the asset was fucking it up, oh god they would come any minute and send him to be wiped, steve c’mon pal wake up we gotta get outta here, but he was cold and unseeing, unbreathing, wake up wake up please they’re coming for us —

The asset launched into the wall opposite the mattress, gun drawn and sighted, survey the surroundings analyze the target position for optimal —

“Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes,” the target said.

Who the hell was? 

He was Bucky. 

He was in Stark Tower. Steve was alive. 

Bucky blinked hard and the target reshaped as Maria Hill in her official SHIELD uniform, expression severe with her hair pulled away. He lowered the gun and clicked on the safety. 

“Great, I didn’t want to test my reflexes or the kevlar before morning coffee.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Bad dreams.”

She smiled thinly. “We all have them. Nice shirt.”

Bucky scrambled to the bed and grabbed his phone. The battery was dead. Not in Wakanda anymore.

“Yeah, I volunteered to check in. Charge up.” She tossed him a portable power bank. “And let’s get my coffee.”

Bucky followed Hill down a floor to the old Avengers common lounge area, where a miraculously functional espresso machine sat next to the pantry microwave and television. The rest of the lounge was empty, the carpet covered in plastic sheeting marked with boot-prints and paint splatter. Hill prepped a large mug for herself and passed Bucky a glass of tap water. He was parched. 

“How’s —”

Hill interrupted, picking up the TV remote. “Let’s talk about the morning news.” She clicked and the pantry flooded with low-resolution photos of Steve and Natasha being stretchered out of the Hudson Yards crater. Breaking News: Captain America in Isolation at NY Lower Presby!

Shit. “That was fast.”

“We gotta move ‘em. Fury’s working on top-secret transport to Mount Sinai tonight.”

Bucky frowned. “Tonight? What about right the fuck now?”

Hill shook her head. “I know, but we can’t risk exposing anyone else to infection. This transport has got to be airtight and quiet.”

“Who’s at the hospital?”

“Rhodes has a team on perimeter security. Best we can do.”

Bucky rubbed his face, stubble scraping as it regrew a solid shadow. The last few days passed in the blink of an eye. “I’ll head over. Simmons and Stark, any news?”

“Running identification analysis.”

Bucky tentatively approached the espresso machine and followed Hill’s motions. The hot caffeine hit his stomach like a lead weight. 

She watched him carefully. “You got a lot on your shoulders.”

“Good thing one of them’s vibranium.”

“He made a joke,” Hill said. She rinsed her mug and leaned against the counter. “I’m serious, Barnes. You wanna talk bad dreams, I’m all ears.”

“Not in the mood,” he muttered. 

“We’re all in this together,” she reminded him, as gently as he supposed possible for Hill.

Bucky wandered up to Steve’s apartment after his half-assed breakfast of old protein bars and frozen instant egg muffins from four years ago. Their duffel bags waited in the entrance hall, barely unpacked. 

Bucky shaved, expecting another unpleasant encounter with the facemask, immune or not, and checked the tracker app on his re-functional phone. Sam was in East Harlem at Metropolitan and Steve and Natasha blinked at Presby. He texted Sam to check in, and dug through his duffel for an outfit to replace the ridiculous sweatpants and Iron Man shirt ensemble. He eyed Steve’s bag. Steve had better shirts, he rationalized as he unzipped the duffel and browsed the contents. Your best guy’s in a coma and you’re gonna invade his privacy, real slick, Barnes. Just borrowing one shirt, no harm, no foul. Well, maybe if Tony insisted on incinerating all his clothes again. He tugged out a simple black tee and Steve's beaten leather wallet came with it. 

A small photo fluttered to the floor.

Black and white, he was a fresh-faced kid in a clean uniform with his whole life ahead of him. 

His lungs squeezed. God, he barely recognized himself. It hurt. It was another thing HYDRA had stolen; he couldn’t remember what it was like before all the awful. Sure, he had his memories now, most of them. But innocence, what it felt to be whole? That was gone, as though it had never existed. He didn’t search for it anymore. 

Bucky flipped the photo and read Steve's tidy script on the back: J.B.B. '42. How the hell had Steve found this? Robbing the Smithsonian again, what an incurable sap. He set the photo aside, replaced the wallet, and changed shirts. Steve’s tee was looser in the chest but close enough to fit. It smelled like aftershave and mint, like everything that was clean and Steve’s. He pulled on his own jacket and, after a beat, tucked the photo into a pocket. Maybe they were both incurable saps.

***

Bucky returned to the Presby waiting room with a considerably less deranged appearance, clean facemask, his paperback, and a small stash of candy bars. And, not that it was visible to the casual observer, a veritable arsenal of weaponry strapped to his body. He trusted Rhodes and his unit, but you could never be too prepared for aliens or whatever the fuck else was crawling around Captain America’s broadcasted location. The waiting room was grim. News crews reported on-scene, and Bucky tugged his ballcap lower to navigate knots of cameras and masked reporters.

"Captain America, as human as the rest of us New Yorkers."

"Star-spangled treatment preference? We asked the staff to--"

"--known fugitive on the run from authorities--"

"--no comment from the Pentagon--"

Bucky shut it all out. He flexed the left hand and waited at reception.

“Visitor for Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff,” he whispered, and showed his special ops ID. The nurse nodded curtly, nothing intriguing at all, and scanned his ID through the security system. He completed the visitor log sheet and signed his name as an unintelligible scribble. The nurse scowled at the reporters and passed Bucky two thick biohazard gloves.

“Ten minutes, under guard. Lopez!” he called, and a burly man in full gear disengaged from the wall. "Visitor, 360."

Bucky stretched the latex over his flesh hand and, awkwardly, the glove already on his left. The guard didn’t so much as blink, and led Bucky through the corridor. Gurneys lined the hallway, yellow quarantine bags sagging and zipped. The doors were all closed but behind a few Bucky could hear voices, some sobbing, others wailing. A mystery color-code system marked the rooms. At a soda vending machine, a red-eyed nurse collected change and a Sprite. 

A brief elevator ride. 

Room 360. 

Bucky exhaled and braced himself. Steve wasn’t going to look like his nightmare, for Christ’s sake. This was a professional hospital. His chart on the door was next to Natasha’s and two green cards. Green was good, right? Green meant go; green had to be good.

“Ten minutes, keep the gloves and your mask on,” the guard reminded him, checking his watch.

Bucky opened the door and stopped.

He supposed time continued.

Natasha rested serene and oblivious, heartbeat steady.

Steve’s bed was neatly made.

They must have the wrong room, he concluded, the first coherent thought his brain conjured. Had Steve woken up confused? Was he wandering the hospital? Did the staff move him? The room tilted, and he remembered to breathe. The left hand had twisted the railing of the empty bed. 

“Where’s Steve?” He turned to the guard, who gaped at the deformed bed railing. “Where the fuck is the patient?”

“Sir, calm down, I’m gonna radio the front desk.”

Bucky yanked out his phone. The tracker app displayed two dots within twenty feet. Impossible. Bucky cased the room, opening the bathroom door and checking under both hospital beds, as if Steve could even fit there. He pulled out nightstand drawers, empty. Beneath the pillowcase, nothing. The guard was radioing about a patient escape and requesting security backup. Three others in scrubs arrived. 

“No, he wasn’t cleared for transport!” 

“Who last signed off his chart?” 

“A few hours ago, he was sleeping!”

Bucky tore the room apart, save questioning Natasha, and heard his own ragged panting. What else, what else. He was about to try the ceiling tiles when he noticed the anomaly. Jesus weeping Christ, it was the tracker, in the biohazard waste bin. He fished it out: intact. Had Steve removed it? Unlikely a sedated patient suffering possible dementia could extract it without functional damage. 

No. He knew what it meant. It was perfectly clear. 

They could be wiping him right now, they could’ve wiped him earlier while Bucky was eating a fucking egg breakfast muffin, they could be doing horrible tests on him, Bucky remembered those tests, the ones where they would open you up to see how fast you could heal, what about this organ, what about this bone — Bucky shoved his fist in his mouth and screamed hard around the rubber and metal, tasted blood on his tongue, squeezed his eyes shut against the raw rage and panic. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. The guard clicked the safety off his sidearm and Bucky had to move fast, soon.

“I said hands behind your head, lay down on the ground!” Lopez demanded as two more guards joined him in the doorway. An alarm shrieked in the corridor.

Bucky raised his hands and laced them behind his neck. The certainty of violence imbued him with calm clarity. There was no space for emotions. 

His gloved fingers grasped the knife hilt under his jacket collar, parallel to his spine. 

This was going to be unfortunate.

He flipped the knife like a dart, straight and true to the exposed right upper wrist of Lopez. Non-lethal by an inch. It was enough to ignite the scene into kinetic fracas. He ducked and blocked immediate fire from the other two guards. Scramble a retreat for cover, protect the vitals. Bullets pinged off the left arm and ricocheted into the wall, demolishing another abstract watercolor print and the disconnected heart monitor. His jacket sleeve shredded. The vibranium sparked and someone screamed in the hallway, in harmony with the howling Lopez. 

Blood spurted across the floor like bright paint. 

If these fucking idiots didn't stop shooting, they were going to hit Natasha. Bucky ripped off the biohazard gloves and drew his Sig. He aimed square for the chest, right in the kevlar, impact over injury. He shot only the bullets he needed. 

A two-step dash propelled him into the window pane shoulder-first, through and out. Third floor was lucky. 

He hit the sidewalk and rolled to distribute the shock. Get up, get moving, past the news vans, bullets whizzing from? Oh shit, right, he’d have to explain to Rhodes later.

Bucky pinched the tracker from his wrist with two fingers and crushed it along with his safe-harbor guarantees. He sprinted east, passed the Williamsburg Bridge in minutes, then sheltered under an awning as a helicopter clattered overhead. 

Curious faces peeped out windows, pulling aside blinds and curtains. One shouted to him as he tossed his mask. 

A commotion of sirens erupted at the next intersection: His APB had gone live. 

Keep moving. Focus. Run. 

Dull brick apartment buildings dominated the neighborhood, a new version of the tenements, and he weaved among them. Jump a fence, cross a park. His lungs burned. Parked cars blurred as he pushed his body further and faster. No crowds to hide in.

North, five more blocks. Three more blocks. 

The sirens gained on him, helicopters converging for air support. He veered into the underground parking garage near 10th, the one that never had CCTV. His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket. Ignore it. Where was it, the door, there--

Danger! Maintenance Only! 

He wrenched it open to the antechamber, surveilled by a lone camera he knew no one was watching. A little black box, a camouflaged retinal scan. Please work, please work.

The wall dropped to reveal a cramped apartment: the Lower Manhattan safehouse.

He re-engaged the locks and caught his breath, hunched over his knees. A single shaft of sunlight entered through a high ventilation window. Designed as a small studio efficiency and musty from years of neglect, the safehouse was bland save for a multi-monitor computing system and row of lockers. Bucky trembled as the adrenaline wore off and he grabbed a pen and paper at the computer desk, using the ever-steady left hand to copy numbers from his phone. He crushed the SIM card and removed the battery. The safehouse was reinforced to prevent tracking but it was better to be careful. He broke open one locker, found an outdated burner, and dialed.

“Who is this?”

“Hill, it’s Barnes.”

“Barnes!” Muffled exclamations in the background. “What the fuck is going on?” The other end included Fury’s voice. “I got a hospital shootout, MIA Captain America, and a whole lot of pissed-off higher ups.”

“They disabled the tracker and they took Steve.” Bucky spread the rest of the locker supplies across the floor and began a methodical inventory.

“So you’re not with Rogers.”

“No.”

“Who’s they?”

“Don’t know.” He opened another locker: weapons.

Hill was back. “Where are you?”

“Secure. Pull surveillance from the hospital, third floor room 360, 0800.”

"Now, hold on. There's a shoot-on-sight for your description," Fury warned.

Bucky counted boxes of ammunition, furious. Time was already being wasted. “I’m the best you’ve got in the field, right now. The longer we wait, the worse it gets for Steve."

He didn't want to dwell on what worse meant. Turning into a gibbering mess was not productive. They could be putting Steve on a plane to the other side of the world. They could be putting Steve into a Chair. He shoved those scenarios aside and hefted the M4A1 and G36C rifles to judge their handling with the new prosthetic. Gather intel. Prepare. It was easy to slip into old skin, things he knew.

Fury swore. "You don't make a single fucking move until we say so, Barnes."

"Understood." Yeah, right.

Hill’s voice: “Sent you a link for CCTV feed from Presby. Stay on this number.” 

The call ended as a message pinged.

Bucky pulled up a chair at the computer console and rummaged for the right connection wire. It dinged to life. He wiped several years of dust from the monitor ensemble and waited for the network to boot. Passcode, the safehouse coordinates, access granted. The old HYDRA symbol spread across the desktop and his gut twisted. They had abandoned the network system after the Widow’s hack; no one should notice his login. He navigated to the link Hill sent him and scrolled the Presby hourly archives. No way they could’ve gotten Steve out through anything other than the door.

There, 0817, the nurse making her rounds. 0829 she exited. Fast-forward, nothing, nothing. 0932 and Bucky stopped. Two hazmat figures with a biohazard waste collection bin. They entered the room and exited twenty minutes later. But the bin Bucky saw in the room had been full. He rewound. The two figures entered the room, one wheeling the bin. Then: They exited with both pushing an obviously heavier load. Bucky fast-forwarded to 1130 when Lopez and himself entered the feed. No other visitors. He rewound again, pausing the frame on the two hazmat suits. The suits were impenetrable; no ID. Follow the CCTV trail —

The burner phone buzzed. Hill. “Hazmat guys?”

“Gotta be.”

A blink and the screen changed to an error message: File not found! What the hell?

“You get an error?”

“Someone’s covering their tracks.”

He back-clicked and half the hourly archive links were dead. 

“Hold on, bringing up the loading dock feed now,” Hill said, followed by scrambled typing. 

The third-floor corridor streams vanished. “Hill?”

“Shit, shit.” 

Bucky grit his teeth and counted the seconds. 

“Got ‘em. License plate acquired, tracing…” Fury cursed again and something slammed. “Sending you the link, Barnes, stay on the line.”

Bucky jumped to open the latest link, a satellite map of NYC pinned at sequential intersections. “I see it.”

“Good news, Steve’s in Manhattan. The bad news… ”

He followed the trail of pins to its terminus, stared at the building, and waited for a wave of cold sweat to subside. “He’s at the Department of Homeland Security.”

“We purged that fucking place top to bottom after the file dump.” Fury was back on the line.

"Guess you missed a spot." He wanted to put his fist through the monitor. How many times was the government going to screw them? Had Ross planned this from the start? “Whoever has Steve, has the serum.”

"I'm very fucking aware, Barnes."

"What do you need?" Hill interjected.

"Get me the blueprints."

Fury paused. "To the Department of Homeland Security federal offices."

"That's right." Bucky opened another locker. Tactical gear, custom-sized.

"We don’t have a leg to stand on without video evidence. SHIELD and the FBI are gonna be all over this investigation. "

"The government can't eat itself in the middle of an epidemic," Hill countered to Fury. "We need movement now, and it has to be under the table."

The other end was silent. Then: “If you drop us on comms, we're done. Any civilian casualties, we're done. You go belly-up, we can’t help you. Am I making myself clear, Barnes?”

Bucky looked at the tac suit accessories. They were just things. Equipment. For Bucky Barnes. Right. 

“Crystal, sir.”

Hill’s voice returned. “It’ll take time to get the full blueprints. Stay put. Wilson’s on his way back to Presby.” The call ended.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Counterattack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for non-con medical scenario and some body horror.

Steve couldn’t say when he emerged from the void, the nothingness. A soft sheet was beneath his fingertips. He had the vague notion a terrible thing had happened, but it was so long ago. His chest was tight. A machine beeped to the side and low murmuring resolved into a voice: 

“Heart rate escalating.”

He tried to swallow. Something was lodged, no inserted, down his throat. His eyes flew open to a light so bright it physically seared, and he squeezed them shut again. Steve gagged, tried to claw at the tube but his arms didn’t listen to his screaming brain, pinned fast, and _oh god_ he was choking — 

The tube abruptly retracted and he retched, throat burning. 

Steve’s shout uttered like a wheeze. What was happening? His tongue lay dry and heavy. A hand pressed him back into the sheet, bed, he was in a bed, a hospital? The burning light made him wheeze again. A needle pricked his arm. He kicked a leg weakly; at least one appendage worked. 

Syrupy gravity held him down, the voice murmuring. “Marked degeneration.”

***

Abraham Erksine stood at the foot of the hospital bed, reading his chart. It was dark.

“Doctor Erksine,” Steve slurred, the words too large and complicated. Erksine frowned and ignored him. Steve had to meet Peggy — No, that wasn’t right. He was seventy years in the future. No, that wasn't right either. Everyone was dead. Was he further in the future? No, not again, please god not again, he had to know — Steve tried to spring from the bed, but instead gave a long sigh as his body absolutely refused direction. 

When had he gotten here? Where was here? Time and place bled together, no narrative held, no suggestions were offered.

“Pulse escalating,” Erksine said. His face elongated and distorted like putty, glasses drooping into narrow ovals. The doctor hooked up a bag of fluid, inserted a needle through a hole in Steve's chest. What the hell was this?

His right hand spasmed and melting-Erksine wrote a note on the chart.

Steve wanted to ask… Well, he couldn't quite recall. He groaned an extended vowel, then left off, tired with the effort. It would come to him later. It wasn’t so important.

Another voice in the dark: “Why’d he call you Erksine?”

That’s his name, Steve meant to say, mildly amused. He sank into a blissful slow molasses. The darkness deepened to totality.

“... Hallucinating the last hour.”

***

He floated in the void and felt nothing. It was pleasant for a long time. Like the ice.

Was it a long time? 

Wait.

This wasn't right at all. No, something was wrong. Urgently, desperately, wrong.

He had to wake up. Now. 

Get. Up.

A needling sensation... There, his fingers. It persisted. He curled a fist, the effort as if fighting a huge force. He flexed his toes, right, he had toes, he was Steven Grant Rogers, yes. He gasped as the prickling intensified and spread, followed by his panic. 

“Pulse escalating,” came the voice. “Akinesia regressing rapidly.”

Something soft covered his eyes. He moved a hand to touch but his wrist caught and he couldn’t muster the strength to push past. What was happening to him? Where was he? The same traitorous wheeze as before. How long ago was before? Why was that always the question? He had to get out of this; whatever ‘this’ was, it was bad.

“Mutism persists,” noted the voice.

What? Steve wheezed again and smacked his tongue against his teeth, lips, yes all still there. A click, then dissipating warmth in his chest. The situation began to seem a little funny. It was just so absurd. They were playing a game on him. The pins and needles sensation enveloped his body in a dull pulsing tickle.

“Captain Rogers, please relax.”

Yes, good idea.

The other voice spoke: “Titer appears to be stabilizing.”

“Stabilizing?”

“Clearance plateaued.”

Steve let the words wash over him.

***

Bucky’s watch ticked to 0032. Fifteen hours. He grabbed the third burner phone and sent a text to Fury: _Update?_

_Yellow_ , the answer blinked.

Proceed with caution. Finally. They'd been ready to roll for two hours; he wasn't going to wait any longer. Bucky switched to the group chat: Open comms. He dismantled the phone, crushed the SIM card, and fixed a receiver in his ear.

“Bluejay to Nest, copy?”

Hill’s voice crackled back. _Roger, this is Nest._

_This is Falcon, and for the record, I’m pissed. On standby._

“Roger, Falcon, good to hear you.” If things went sideways, Sam had instructions.

Bucky tied a bootlace tight, checked a mental inventory of his weapons, tugged the kevlar vest secure and zipped the one-armed tactical jacket. It was tight, fitted to the Winter Soldier’s malnourished frame. That was different. Good. The lockers were nearly empty. 

The mind can go in a thousand directions; live in the breath. 

Bucky reached to his other jacket, fishing out Steve’s old photograph of cocky Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Just in case. He tucked it into the kevlar and took a steadying inhale. Do it all at once. Now. The muzzle-like mask fastened over his mouth and nose. It smelled mildly chemical. He strapped on the goggles and the safehouse switched to night vision as sensors calibrated distance and trajectory readouts. 

THE ASSET THE ASSET — 

Adrenaline sprinted off, his body anticipating a protocol upload, and the ghouls began to rouse from their corners. 

He clutched the kimoyo beads. That was different.

He was Bucky. He had control.

Bucky gulped, and fashioned a new protocol structure: Primary and sole objective to recover Steve, collateral acceptable if unavoidable, initiate self-destruct if… He decided to leave that part out. Focus on the mission, what he had meticulously planned the past fifteen hours in the safehouse. 

Set aside the fear, next to all the what-ifs, and focus on the mission. The shades retreated.

“Bluejay to Nest, Operation Wounded Eagle is a go.”

Bucky slipped from the safehouse into the freezing midnight, the city criss-crossed by stray helicopter searchlights and military patrols. Shoot on sight. Just like old times. He studied the neighborhood from the parking garage eaves. A scattering of lights in various apartment buildings, a few shadows in windows. Eyes were all around, but not searching. 

“Avenues A and B in five, Second in ten.”

_Copy, Bluejay. Three… two… go._

The traffic cameras switched to a short loop as Bucky hustled across the intersection. Old snow piles ringed the local park and he navigated their icy patches. An unperturbed fresh dusting draped over cars and shrubbery. Trees cast skeleton shadows, fleeting cover. Then the safety of a long construction awning. His breath puffed small clouds past the mask. He clung to the crevices of the building, down and around the block. 

The old Cooper Station post office was surrounded by a massive security contingent, part of the midway staging area for NYU and Mt. Sinai hospital support. A medley of floodlights and pulsing police beacons played across the post office’s imposing columns, the ones Johnny Davis’s uncle claimed he helped place. Clouds clearing, the moon was a slim, bright fingernail.

“Fourth and Tenth Street,” Bucky muttered. 

A nondescript military van idled curbside as the driver chatted with a paratrooper. Bucky crept to it.

“And do you know, we had some great season tickets too, they gotta figure out a refund. Shit, they end the season now we don’t even get the playoffs.”

He waited for the conversation to end, then slipped in the unlocked passenger side.

Lt. Colonel James Rhodes glanced over, sighed, and shifted the van into gear. 

“War Machine starting curfew route,” he said, and turned on the radio. They idled at several intersections, tracing a circuitous path to a jazz-funk soundtrack and particularly aggressive saxophone. 

Bucky rapped the dashboard. “Last mark in three,” he whispered.

A street sign declared Turn Only - Holland Tunnel. Rhodes slowed the van and waited disapprovingly as Bucky grabbed a bag from the wheel well. Parting with a nod of thanks, Bucky hopped out and tossed half the contents across the intersection. The tire spikes clinked on the asphalt. 

He cut into an alley, placed a small package at a dumpster, and eyed the building ahead. One guard loitered by the lobby, and two security cameras perched in opposite corners. Taking them out would give too much warning. No casualties, Barnes. Okay, so the front door was a no-go. He’d figured as much.

Bucky circled the block, scattering the rest of the tire spikes, and approached the building from the side. Brick, as expected, fantastic. He spotted a series of second-floor darkened windows, then dug the left fingers into the mortar to climb.

Right arm balanced on the sill, he jimmied the lock and forced the window wide enough to shimmy into an apartment bathroom. It was small, cluttered, and reeked of mildew. A child’s cartoon toothbrush waited by the sink. Bucky paused in the hallway and heard snores from the bedroom. He unlocked the front door and exited to a harshly lit landing. 

He peered up the beige stairwell and spied a single security camera. Nice place. He fastened the silencer on his Sig and aimed, steadied by the banister. Eliminated. If there were lobby security, they would notice. The minutes were critical. Twenty flights to go. Bucky climbed the stairs three at a time.

The roof exit was locked and barricaded. No problem. He busted the hinges and it swung open crazily. The wind whipped his hair as he tied it back. His boots crunched in the frozen snow, and he knelt at the roof’s edge to sight a path. The opposite building loomed menacing and impenetrable. 

“Nest, this is Bluejay. Eyes on Taco Bell.”

_Roger, Bluejay. Standing by._

Bucky assembled the line thrower gun and carefully fixed the trajectory against the projected one in his goggles, accounting for wind and distance. Two chances to get the ricochet angle just right. Snow soaked into his knees. A helicopter searchlight swung five blocks over. This had to be fast. He double-checked the trajectory one more time. Fire. The nylon line shot out towards the opposite roof. He listened for a faint dink! as it hit the ventilation chimney, and snatched the returning line above him. He stretched the two lines taut, looped around the satellite fixture on the agency’s roof.

“Nest, ready when you are.” 

_Cueing replay now. Your ten seconds starts in three… two… go._

Don’t think, just move. Bucky gripped the line and stepped off the roof before his emotions caught up, plummeting then swinging to the DHS building. The line held sure. He braced his legs for impact against the concrete in a move that would’ve sent anyone else’s shins through their kneecaps. Dangling down the side of the building, Bucky hauled himself up overhand, two stories to go, Hill’s countdown in his ear. His right arm muscles burned and he let the left carry the final heaves to the rooftop. 

Bucky rolled to his back on the gravel and exhaled. Sweat froze on his brow. 

“Bluejay perched.”

He re-coiled the nylon line and threw a silent thank-you to whoever installed the satellite apparatus. Keep moving. Next step. Focus. Bucky assessed the penthouse — security cameras, keypad entry, probably motion and heat sensors — and checked his watch.

“Moving to entry.”

_Roger, Bluejay. Standing by._

This part would be loud. Bucky strode to the penthouse and ruptured the door with a punch. An alarm immediately whooped in protest, doubled then tripled in echo. He yanked the door through its frame and turned to the control panel inside. Fire Override, the panel helpfully indicated. Bucky set his lock pick flush against the keyhole. It whirred, determining a series of clicks and half-turns. Access granted. He pressed the penthouse recall button and the elevator gears churned to action. 

Bucky unwrapped the small block of C4 and double-checked the wiring. He had an embedded instinct that yes, this was right, like reflexively tying a shoelace. There was no time to fuck up; this plan had to work. His right palm sweated under the glove and he envied the old programming’s infallible conviction, the Soldier’s medicated calm. The elevator opened with a friendly chime. He stuck the C4 to the polished wood and hit the recall to maintenance button. It obliged and began to descend. He peered down the shaft, gauging the descent as the counterweight approached, and flipped open his latest burner phone. He entered a number definitely not related to Steve’s birthday and hovered over the little green icon. Sirens started in the distance. The gears stopped. 

Call.

The explosion swayed the building like a gentle earthquake. A wave of hot wind and three steel cables snapped up the shaft, unmoored from the car. That was okay, he only needed one intact.

“Bluejay leaving the perch.”

Bucky grabbed a cable in the left, a flashbang in his right, and dropped down the shaft towards the crumpled mess at the bottom. Sparks flew, the steel cable screeching against vibranium friction. A fire alarm joined the intruder alarm. Ignore it, focus. He tightened his grip to slow at the jagged corpse of the elevator car, and tossed the flashbang through the blown-out shaft wall. No casualties. Bucky drew his Sig and followed the shouts.

***

Steve lay still, listening. If they didn’t know he was awake they wouldn’t sedate him again. He kept his breath steady and the heart rate monitor beeped along. The soft cloth covered his eyes. Someone yawned and a clicking noise resumed. Typing, a computer. His toes were cold. His bare chest ached. Could he speak, or would it be that horrible wheeze? God, he had to get out of here. Find the others, figure out what the hell happened. Steady, steady. 

He counted the seconds, because if he didn’t track time in some small way he’d really go crazy. 

The door opened and heavy footsteps approached the yawning typist.

“What’s the latest?” An older man’s voice, same as earlier. The typing stopped.

“Titer still plateaued as of last hour.” A young woman, different voice than the last titer update, whatever that meant. Chair wheels rolled across hard flooring, then clicking. A concerned hmmm.

“See this? Persistent plaques in the liver, and impartial clearance here in the occipital lobe and motor cortex.” There was a sigh. “Academically interesting, but nothing useful.”

“Did you watch Stark’s press conference?”

“Who didn’t.” The voice trailed off, followed by a prolonged squeak as the speaker leaned in his chair.

The words banged around. Stark? Medical jargon? 

Oh god, _the infection!_

It dawned on him. Steve remembered everything with a clarity as if waking from a dream. He was infected. _He_ was infected. The tunnel, the poor kid, Natasha, oh god, this couldn’t be the hospital, could it? He had to get away, what if it was a trap for Sam, Bucky— _Bucky_. How long— ?

The chair squeaked again. “Heart rate escalating.”

Nonononono—

A massive BOOM, like a roll of close thunder, interrupted. The room groaned and rumbled as the bed swayed, and what sounded like a light fixture crashed in the corner. Cold water sprayed. 

Assuming this was the only chance he'd get, Steve rolled off the bed. 

Various wires and tubes strained to tether him. One of the voices screamed, but the sudden blare of the fire alarm drowned it out. Sprinklers, the water was from sprinklers. An explosion. His feet slipped in the spray as he stabilized his balance against the bed. Steve tugged aside the cloth blindfold. His vision was fuzzed and splotchy, like after an old bulb photograph. Two blurred figures ran out the door. Then the fire emergency light flashed and he screamed, throat hoarse. His eyes burned, a sharp pain drilling his skull, and Steve ground his palms into them. Okay, so escape would be a little difficult. 

He yanked out almost every tube and wire he could feel. The machines were quiet; the electricity must’ve been cut. No need to worry about electrocution by sprinkler. Steve grimaced when he touched a catheter under the soaked hospital pants. Well, that tube was staying in for now, fucking great. Frustrated anger bloomed, and he welcomed it like an old friend. 

Gunfire erupted outside the room. Electrocution or urethral trauma could be the least of his problems.

“Blind guy in a gunfight,” he muttered, and oh, it was glorious to speak coherent words. 

He sloshed across the room and staked a position against the door, feeling for the hinges. Steve brandished what he guessed was his IV stand. He probably still had super strength, right? If he could take down one guy, get his weapon —

“Backup, backup,” someone screamed in the corridor.

The door kicked open and Steve swung the IV stand with all his might. It clanged against metal and bent uselessly, fuck. He ducked, anticipating the counter-attack, and the world spun off-balance.

“Steve?” the intruder exclaimed, muffled. “Are you hurt? It's me, it's Bucky.”

“Buck?” he gasped, reaching, finding a metal arm, oh thank you god. Bucky pulled away the blindfold and Steve reeled from the bright emergency lights. “I can’t— I can’t see, the lights… ” He tugged the cloth up, then shrank back as fear tempered his relief. “Don’t, I’m infected.”

Bucky grabbed his hand and pressed into it a damp facemask. “Put this on and let’s go.” 

“Where are we?” Steve fumbled with the mask as Bucky crashed around the computer area, swearing. 

“Homeland Security, by the Holland Tunnel. C’mon.” Bucky took his hand again and they were moving. 

“In New York? How long, since… ? What happened?”

“Fifteen hours. They kidnapped you from the fucking hospital. Stay close,” he said, as if Steve was considering another option.

Fifteen hours? That was it? Homeland Security, the hell? His head whirled. 

Gun smoke hung heavy in the hall. Steve stumbled past an obstacle on the floor; a groaning body. A radio crackled and screamed: _Fuckin’ spikes all over the fuckin’ street someone get the fuck over to DHS right now all available units on foot!_

He realized Bucky had the radio when he replied. “Suspect armed and dangerous, headed to lower level garage!”

_Copy that, lower level garage!_

They banged through a door and Bucky stopped. “You’re not gonna like this, but trust me it’s faster,” he said over echoes of the fire alarm.

“Uh."

Steve's balance spun as Bucky lifted him in a fireman’s carry, metal arm sturdy behind his knee, and he had a second of embarrassment before they were scaling one, two, three flights of stairs. Steve’s arm knocked against hard plastic. The Soldier mask? His heart lurched. Or was it the disorientation?

His perception righted, then wobbled, as Bucky lowered him. “Nest, this is Bluejay. Eagle secured. Transport in two.”

_Copy that, Bluejay. Transport’s ready._

Was that Hill's voice? Steve heard zippers and velcro while Bucky fumbled in his tac pants, then a distant, smaller explosion outside. A nauseous wave hit Steve as his stomach tried to maintain with current events (keep it together, Rogers) and then Bucky was grabbing his elbow and propelling him forward, through a stairwell exit, where the acrid odor of explosive punctured the winter air. Steve shivered as the cold touched too much bare wet skin at once. 

They moved towards an idling vehicle and Steve heard rear doors opening, the plastic-and-alcohol smell of sanitized medical equipment as Bucky guided him up and in. An ambulance. They were escaping in an ambulance?

***

Bucky steered Steve into the ambulance as the side street caught smoke from the literal dumpster fire he had detonated. He clambered after Steve and tapped the separation window, doing a double take when Hill turned around.

“As if I’d miss all the action. Bags and a new cell on your right,” she said and flipped the sirens. “Already took out their surveillance.”

_Eagle secured. Nest, sitrep?_ Hill asked through the comms.

Bucky grabbed their duffel bags from under a medical cabinet, noting a Wakandan logo on the cellphone. This one wasn’t bugged, or traceable.

_Eight units in collisions along Houston and Hudson, at least ten units responding via 6th and 7th_ , Sam responded as Hill navigated the ambulance. _Bluejay, what’s our Eagle’s status?_

Steve’s face was ashen, and he gripped the biohazard mask. “Buck, I’m gonna—”

Bucky dragged a trash can in time to catch the vomit. God, it was the Cyclone all over again. He grabbed a towel, pressed it into Steve’s hand, then — motherfuckers — noticed the port embedded in his chest, above where his ribs were a faded purple and yellow mess. Another injection site faded on his wrist, and sticky electrode residue dotted his temples. Rage began to bubble. 

No time for that, set it aside, set it aside.

“Steve, I gotta check the rest of you, pal, hold on. Sorry.” Bucky scooted down Steve’s soaked hospital scrubs and noticed the catheter. It could’ve been worse. He ground his teeth. He would find whoever was behind this and hurt them. “I can take it out; okay?” 

Steve nodded stiffly, wiping his face with the towel, and Bucky snapped on latex gloves as the ambulance turned. The vibranium tore through the first glove; he swore and carefully added a second. 

_Bluejay, repeat, sitrep on Eagle. Mission report!_

Mission report. Focus. “Assume contagious infection. Broken ribs, healing. No visible open wounds. Eagle is conscious and in drug withdrawal. Full mobility, no fever, mentally stable. Severe light sensitivity or eye damage. Medical porting,” Bucky recited as he removed the catheter and bag. Strange to perform maintenance on someone other than himself. “Route to Plan A, no emergency intervention needed.”

A long pause. _Roger that, Bluejay. You still with us?_ Sam asked.

Was he? Bucky blinked. Steve’s hand was warm over his own. “Roger, Nest.”

The ambulance swung a sharp turn and Bucky drew Steve’s free arm around his shoulders.

“Nat and Sam, are they… ?”

“Sam’s on comms. Natasha’s infected,” Bucky said grimly. “I’m immune.” At that, Steve tensed. The ambulance lurched to a halt. “C’mon, our stop. You can make it.” He set the trash can aside and hefted Steve’s weight.

“Nest, gonna need decon in the transport. Bluejay out,” he said, shepherding them straight into the parking garage and the safehouse. A late-night ambulance wasn’t unusual in any neighborhood these days.

“Where are we,” Steve rasped, his muffled voice against Bucky’s ear.

“Asset safehouse, abandoned since the Triskelion.” Bucky closed the exterior maintenance door, then the false safehouse wall, as the ambulance sirens faded. He engaged the locks and checked the video surveillance feed he'd rewired. No tail. They were secure for now.

It was over; the mission was completed. 

His old gear and op plans were still spread across the floor and computer modules. Bucky guided Steve to the small bed, part of a little alcove with a kitchenette and a closet-sized bathroom. The last time the Soldier was here, he'd used the mini fridge for drug storage and the cooktop for cauterizing. His excess adrenaline cycled round and round as he shook apart, sagging. He craved the post-mission chemicals and hated himself. Hell, there was a pill bottle here. He focused on breathing. In, out.

Steve lifted a corner of the blindfold, then the whole thing. He touched the skin around his eyes, his eyelids, and winced at the computer console screensaver. Steve tilted his head at Bucky. “You’re hurt?”

Bucky huffed; typical Steve. “Just the shakes.”

Steve reached out and slid off Bucky’s goggles, hair flopping over his brow as the tie released. Gentle fingers unstrapped the mask, the muzzle, at the back and let it fall to the floor.

“You’re immune,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded and clenched the left hand while his other trembled. Steve took off his own mask and finally, finally, they were two bare human faces to each other again.

“Can’t believe you tried to beam me with an IV stand.”

Steve touched him, caressed the bones and angles of his face, as if to smooth and hold them in place. 

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice wobbled low. He laid the vibranium at the crook of Steve’s neck to know the heat of his body, the thrum of his blood.

They rested.

“What they did,” Steve whispered thickly after a while.

Bucky tangled a grip into Steve’s hair and held his head close, safe. _I know, I know._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for one (1) brief scene of gentle smut. Supporting characters borrowed from Marvel comics universe (Earth-616).

Sam stared at the vending machine selection, the glass pane chipped and taped. A ceiling tile leaked a gray puddle on the floor next to him. No, this wasn't Lower Manhattan Presbyterian; this wasn't a hospital they'd send Captain America. The small corner adjacent to the hospital waiting room was a brief escape from the swirling crises. After securing Natasha's room and running comms, he’d returned in time to interrupt a pitiful armed robbery at the hospital pharmacy. Sara wasn’t eating, their ma called every half hour, and he was trying to shoulder it all. They almost lost visitation permissions after Sara took off her biohaz gloves. They couldn’t bring Jody’s favorite action figure or Jimmy’s comics; sterile necessities only. Lord, they were just kids.

He smoothed a dollar bill between his thumb and forefinger, and stared at the choices again, astounded Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups existed in a world where he might lose both his nephews. Time kept going after Riley, an incredulous notion still. Right, it kept going and he hadn’t. _You think you can make up all that lost time by showing up here? Now, Sam?_ Sara’s accusation rang in his ears. 

She was upset. She was right. Sure, he put in time at the VA but then off he went again, into the field, followed Captain America into the fray and across fleabag motels in eastern Europe. Last time he’d seen Jody, the kid was in diapers. Now he was talking. He’d no idea what his nephew’s voice sounded like. The realization punched the air from his lungs and he braced against the vending machine. He couldn’t redo the past but he could damn well do his best now. He felt helpless anyway.

***

Bucky surfaced from sleep, his jaw clenched with whatever nightmare had played this time. He froze, disoriented, before relaxing into the sparse bed’s warmth and bare touches of skin. He remembered eating terrible instant noodle packets, shucking his tactical gear, Steve throwing up again like he was twelve with a stomach bug. Bucky closed his eyes. He wanted to turn and press flush with Steve, fit their bodies together the way he knew they did. Instead he rolled from the bed to zip up his old hoodie and jeans. 

The new phone jingled. Hope leapt in his chest and he checked the call ID: Sam.

“Yeah?” He tried not to sound disappointed and wiped a splash of vomit from the toilet seat.

“Twelve-hour check-in. How’s it going?”

“Well he puked his guts up and now he’s asleep, so I guess okay, I don’t know.” 

Twelve hours already? Bucky scoured the musty half-kitchen for coffee and calories. If he wasn’t productive he would ruminate on all the slow ways to punish the people who had hurt Steve. He put an empty ramen noodle cup in a plastic trash bag.

“Who’s that?” Steve grumbled from the bed.

“Doc Wilson. How’re you feeling?” Bucky set the phone on speaker and wished he had picked a safehouse with a better-stocked pantry. The cupboard yielded more instant noodles and protein mix.

“Vision’s still… wrong. Nauseous, kinda bloated, I guess?”

“Yeah, okay. Light sensitivity can be a brain trauma symptom. The nausea and bloating is probably withdrawal from whatever they had you on.”

“How much longer?” Bucky asked. Finally, fucking Maxwell House. Bucky kissed the can and set a saucepan of water to boiling.

“Dunno, with his metabolism it’s hard to say.”

“I remember a voice talking about it, when I was, uh, trapped there.”

Bucky peered over sharply. “What kind of voice.”

Steve closed his eyes. “Older man, deep voice. There were others, but he was… He said plaques, in my liver and brain. A lobe, or cortex.”

“Anything else?”

“They were pretty unhappy. He mentioned — I think he mentioned Stark’s press release? What press release?”

Bucky stirred the coffee grounds stiffly. All this talk about lobes and cortexes set his skin crawling. “News conference identifying the immune cofactor.”

“They must’ve thought you were immune,” Sam said.

“Was it HYDRA?”

“Hard to confirm; no one's died of cyanide poisoning.”

“Of course it's them,” Bucky snapped. Infectious diseases, bioweapons development, it all went with her program.

Wait.

He rewound back: Her program? Whose?

The recall was empty, as if it had never occurred. Write it in the journal later. Every association was meaningful.

“I couldn’t move or talk,” Steve murmured, and shook his head. “Not for long, I guess. Sometimes it felt nice. But I thought it might've been years, again.”

Bucky’s heart crumpled like tissue paper. The steady left hand ladled coffee into two styrofoam cups. He considered putting his other on the red hot burner.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Steve. It sounds scary as hell,” Sam managed.

“Thanks, Sam, we’ll keep you updated.” Bucky cut the call short with a rudeness he knew Sam didn’t deserve. He tried to grip his cup but it threatened collapse under pressure. Instead he watched Steve gingerly touch his swollen abdomen. “I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

Steve held up a hand. “Buck, it’s not on you, c’mon. We all took the mission.”

“Yeah, you’re right, we did. You can’t ever stay out of it, can you?”

“Out of what? Trying to save lives?”

“You didn’t wait for backup! What about you, your life, Steve?”

“There’s a risk and price for what we do.”

“Don’t give me that crap. It don’t make you a martyr,” Bucky said. He sipped the scalding coffee. He held the other cup close for Steve, whose grasp was off-target before getting it the next try. That was more than light sensitivity.

“I’m not trying to be a fucking martyr,” Steve bit back, apparently ignoring whatever was going on with his eye-hand coordination and hoping Bucky would too. Fine.

“You been burning the candle at both ends. It's reckless and you know it,” Bucky accused and Steve blanched alarmingly. Bucky’s anger evaporated. He’d gone too far, why were they even arguing?

“I’m gonna—”

Oh, shit. Bucky grabbed the trash bag.

***

Maria Hill did not appreciate stonewalling tactics. She stood outside the DHS building, within the area marked by yellow CAUTION! tape that fluttered in the biting wind. The street bore the scars of several collisions. The building exterior was unfazed, most of the damage contained in the basement level. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets against the chill and squinted into the wind. 

“Tell me that funny joke one more time, sir?”

Ross’s mouth was a flat line under his mustache. “There’s no evidence Captain Rogers was ever held in a fantastical medical suite in this administrative offices building. We’ve lost his and the Winter Soldier’s tracking signals; their deal is off.”

“And that’s the official quote.”

“It is.”

“What’s the unofficial one, sir?”

Ross walked with her to the cordon edge. “I’m looking into it.” Hill scoffed but he held her back. “Let me be clear: I don’t take HYDRA infiltration lightly, Agent Hill. And that may be what happened here. But I’m for damned sure going to seize an opportunity to put Rogers and Barnes where they belong.” He studied her a long second and Hill arranged her best poker face. “There are laws against harboring fugitives too.”

“I’m well aware, sir,” Hill said. She always won at poker. Ross dropped his grip on her elbow and rejoined his security detail. Prick. The sooner the guy retired, the better. Not surprising DHS went the deny-and-bury route. HYDRA could’ve regrown an entire cell. She took Ross at his word to investigate, but HYDRA would take steps to protect its own. They needed to work this outside the bureaucratic channels. She needed Natasha Romanoff to wake up.

***

Steve slammed his shin on the raised bathtub lip and bit back a curse. The bathroom was pitch dark. He blinked and couldn’t tell the difference. A scintillating orb in the center of his vision had persistently grown since the ambulance escape. He reached for the opposite wall and found the cool tile and grout under his fingers. Tracing down he felt the faucet contours. Hot on the left, cold on the right. Steve heard Bucky hum a tune outside the bathroom door, cleaning a gun or sharpening a knife. Not because he thought Steve couldn’t manage showering on his own. But just in case. 

The shower sputtered to life and he flinched in the cold spray. Pipes groaned in the walls as the water warmed and washed his body. The soap bar was a soft scent soothing in the growing steam. He brushed the foreign port in his chest and his stomach rolled over, once, sharply, against the coffee and five bowls of oatmeal. He ran a hand across his abdomen, his body stubbornly refusing to return to normal. If he could call his Captain America body normal. He’d been a skinny asthmatic far longer; he’d grown up in that body and learned to fight with it, to love with it, before this one and most times he dreamed in it. You really got yourself in a jam this time, Rogers. 

He replayed the subway tunnel scene again. If only he had been more cautious, less insistent. But the kid was so sick. He should’ve gotten in front of Natasha sooner. Steve scrubbed his hair. You’re dwelling on a situation you can’t change or control, Sam would say. Focus on what you can do now. Well, that wasn’t much. Rest and recover, then figure this thing out. A plot to capture and experiment on an Avenger couldn’t win the endorsement of the wider US government, no matter how suspect DHS was in their policy-making lately. Cut one head off…

Steve shut off the water and searched for the towel. The muted humming was back to Little Brown Jug. He was careful not to slam his shin and instead whacked his elbow against the porcelain sink. A chunk broke off and the humming stopped. He located his sweatpants and shirt, taking care to put them on right-side forward. He waved and hit the doorknob. The room was the right balance of gloom for him to distinguish Bucky’s shadowed outline splayed on the floor.

“Sink didn’t make it, huh?”

“I need a toothbrush and toothpaste. And a glass of water.”

“God forbid we neglect dental hygiene.” Bucky’s shadow rummaged by the bed and took a short detour to the kitchen. “Here, paste’s on it.”

The brush handle pressed into his palm. Bucky loitered in the doorway and passed him a cup of tap water. He found the cup’s shadow from the corner of his eye, around the obstructing blob, and grabbed it clumsily.

“Can’t tell me you had this in mind when you left Wakanda,” Steve tried to joke as Bucky took back the cup. No point in sharing the new developments yet. There was nothing they could do.

“You kidding me? Wouldn’t be a real mission if I didn’t need to watch out for Steve Rogers.”

“Is that why you wanted to leave?” The question lingered. “If you gave up your chance at a life, put on a uniform again, because of me—”

“My chance at a life?” Bucky interrupted incredulously. “What, wondering what the hell dumb thing you’d do in the field next? Watch you lose yourself fighting HYDRA? Yeah, okay, part of it was you. It always is,” he added. “But I think I can do some good out here.” 

Vibranium skimmed Steve’s knuckles where they clutched the broken sink.

“This arm? It’s a weapon. I’m a weapon, have been for a long time, even before.” Bucky paused, maybe expecting a challenge, but Steve waited out the silence. False naivete was long gone. “Thing is, it’s how you use it. I gotta believe I can help, make amends, you know.”

“I know.” _I love you, stay with me._ “God, I missed you,” he murmured.

Bucky huffed and the vibranium returned against his knuckles, running smooth pressure up and down the spaces between them. Steve turned his hand and caught Bucky’s palm in his own, the metal unyielding. He was in an alley ages ago, Bucky leading him home after a broken nose, a concussion. It was different now, holding hands like this with a grown man, the way he had with Peggy. It was an anchor in the shadows.

Bucky tugged. “C’mon, have another cup of joe.”

***

Simmons finished her fifth mug of tea and rotated the giant squiggle hologram one more time, toggling the electrostatic charge mapping on and off. This was it, definitely. The modeling all jived. Hello there, cofactor protein 22. You’re going to save New York City. At the thought, she broke into a nervous sweat and ran through the angstrom calculations again. A single error in the amino acid sequence and conformational folding would render the entire protein useless. They couldn’t afford time to correct mistakes. The synthesis needed to be perfect. 

Simmons rubbed her forehead and waited for the computer to export the final modelling data. She wanted to give in and weep with exhaustion; she hadn’t showered in days and her temporary desk outside the lab was muggy with body odor, tea and coffee stains, protein bar wrappers and scribble-covered notepads. If Fitz were here he’d be mortified. Then he’d tell her the calculations checked out all right, she knew they did. 

She knew they did. 

Send the data. Fucking send it. 

Simmons attached the file, flagged high importance, and hit send.

***

Steve stared into the dark safehouse, listening to the evening news. The scintillating orb steadily expanded to threaten his remaining peripheral vision. He should probably tell Bucky. There was also his right hand. Specifically, it had staged a revolt. He felt slow and clumsy, and full; fluid collected as his liver shut down. 

This was a nightmare.

“Bucky?” No response. He tilted his head to see Bucky’s outline asleep at the small kitchenette table. “Buck,” he repeated, louder. 

Ragged panting, a high whine. That was a nightmare. Steve grit his teeth and levered off the bed.

Steve had a moment’s touch on Bucky’s hair before his feet were swept from under him. He cracked through the table with a grunt, and metal pinned his sternum where he was straddled, breathless. The panting stopped. 

“Steve?” 

Weight shifted as Bucky rolled off and Steve winced, pain flaring in his swollen liver. 

“Fuck, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine, it’s fine.”

Bucky sighed. “Get off the table.” 

Strong arms hauled Steve from the splintered particleboard. He swayed to catch his balance, bile rising hot in his throat. 

“Steve. What’s wrong with your hand.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said reflexively.

“Were you gonna say anything?”

It numbly spasmed as the pins-and-needles sensation crept back, the disease gaining new footholds from the inside. All he could do was sit and wait and hide; three things he’d never been good at.

“Steve, look at me.”

“I am.” Or he thought he was.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Steve tilted his head but Bucky’s fingers moved with the infuriating orb.

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” Bucky sounded like he might cry and that scared Steve more than anything. “How long?”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, because he couldn’t have Bucky upset about this right now, but it sounded ridiculous to his own ears. 

He didn’t know what else to say. That he was fucking falling apart? If he said it out loud it might come true. No, he would hold this thing together with glue and a prayer.

***

The machine beeped then went silent again. Tony sighed and raised his eyes heavenward, as if a deity could help him fix the peptide synthesizer. Nineteen other machines between the CDC and NIH were running at round-the-clock capacity, including a Wakandan loaner that quintupled the output, but they needed all hands on deck. Formulation and dosing required bulk cofactor manufacturing at a speed that surpassed any normal pharmaceutical operation. He worked out a crick in his neck and popped another Adderall. He’d take a vacation after this whole thing was over, like he’d been saying for years.

“I’m telling you, we must replace the motherboard socket.” Shuri’s voice was in his ear as he drew his glasses down, the embedded video chip connected to Wakanda’s lab.

“Yours doesn’t need a motherboard so how would you know,” he grumbled. “Dum-E, Philips.”

The tiny robot next to him offered a screwdriver. 

“And put on some Black Sabbath, I can hear myself think.”

Tony unscrewed the second panel behind the machine and considered the circuitry shitshow in front of him. Shuri snorted in disgust. Half the wiring was redundant. The lone field rep was sick in the hospital. 

“Fine, we’ll try it your way,” he said, locating the intricate board with the central processor. “Dum-E, find me a new… whatever the hell trash brand CPU this is. Old workshop bench, third drawer. No, fourth. No, third.”

The robot whirred away and Tony unscrewed the motherboard, the cramp in his neck returning. He was too old to contort his body at these angles. He should go to yoga with Pepper. Was she calling tonight? Or was tonight the San Diego science fair with Parker? Or was it yesterday? Was the science fair still happening? Was it the sort of thing they cancelled in emergencies? 

“Don’t bend any pins.”

“Obviously.” He rolled his eyes and extricated the board. His back cracked no less than three times as he stood. “So, are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

“Our elephants stay outside, Mr. Stark.”

“Hilarious.” He placed the board atop a small box heating station and tapped a foot impatiently. “But Barnes was just vacationing in Wakanda the past, oh, two years? And a free new arm that I am not jealous of. I don’t even care how it works. You know he murdered my parents, right? With a different arm?”

“I know the history.”

Tony really, really didn’t want to keep walking down this road but it came out of him like a compulsion, to verify and re-verify this man committed this crime and got away with it because he had been, okay, extensively and horrifically brainwashed by a global terrorist organization. He heated the CPU socket and lifted it with a pair of tweezers. 

“So that’s it? That’s all you have to say? I know the history?”

“Mr. Stark, I’ve no need to explain myself or Wakanda’s policies to you.”

He raised an eyebrow. Dum-E returned with a new chip and he applied fresh flux and solder in the relative silence of Black Sabbath. How the hell did Pepper put up with him.

Tony fit the board into the unit and switched on the display. It beeped. Then booted to life. Son of a… 

“Okay,” he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose, right where all his neuroses tended to settle and congregate and multiply. “You were right.”

***

“It’s been four fucking days,” Bucky said tightly, pacing a cramped circle in the stifling safehouse. “Tell me you’re close. We can’t stay with him like this.”

“I’m right here,” Steve groused from the bed.

“We’re close. Sit tight.”

“I’m bringing him to the Tower.”

“Then you’ll both be arrested. Ross’s men are camped out. One more day, I think. I need to get back to the clinic.” Cho hung up.

Bucky flexed his left hand. “God,” he breathed in exasperation and grabbed a cigarette pack from the computer console desk. He’d broken into a shuttered bodega to replenish their food stock. As far as old nervous habits went, this was the healthiest option. Steve shifted on the bed and Bucky did a quick calculation. Six hours after the last dose, assuming their metabolism was the same, yeah that was about right. The safehouse had enough oxycodone for two more days. Then it was down to clonazepam, expired milder sedatives and mood stabilizers. He’d flushed away the antilibidinals and propranolol in a fit of rage.

Bucky let go a controlled exhale and shook out two little yellow pills. Steve hauled himself upright with his left arm, his right side semi-slumped as if permanently exhausted. He’d gone quiet yesterday morning, and under Sam’s increasingly anxious questioning admitted to an unrelenting headache and pain in his abdomen. So, now the drugs. Things appeared to be holding steady but Bucky figured Steve’s liver was losing the fight, without supplies to fix it. 

“How do you feel now?”

“As good as I look,” Steve guessed, face drawn and sallow.

The rank odor of fever-sick sweat rose from the soaked sheets. “Fishing for compliments, huh, thought I was the vain one.”

“You haven’t fixed your hair since ‘43.”

“Anyone ever say you’re a funny guy? Here, open up.” 

Bucky fed him the two tablets and chased with a sip of water, practiced after the first few times. He crouched by the bed and tried not to lose his shit all over again as Steve sank back with a grimace.

One more day. Okay. 

Take it one hour at a time and definitely do not fall into a negative spiral picturing Steve wasting away right in front of him. No. He thought of the flu, when Steve's ma called in Father McCullough, and how scared he’d been, nine years old.

Ninety years later it wasn't supposed to be the same.

***

Bucky’s hand on his face, a finger pressed against his lips, open up. The candy-bland mint painkillers, chasing tobacco residue from Bucky’s skin. The cheap cigarettes tickled his nose and sparked his memory.

 

“You need to eat,” he said, concerned how Bucky’s bones showed sharper. They were in a rural French village only Dernier could pronounce, the old brown mildewed tent pitched in mud, with their mud-covered boots and trousers and the promise of more rain in the air.

“Yeah, these rations are delicious.” Bucky pushed aside the map and yawned, checked his watch.

Steve changed shirts quickly, self-conscious in this new body around Bucky, how big and ridiculous it looked. He faced the tent side and tucked a fresh undershirt.

“You sure this is permanent?” Bucky was standing, measuring him up. 

“Seems like.”

“Wow.”

“Yep.” He crossed his arms, biceps flexing, god so stupid, then put his arms down again, then put his hands in his pockets.

“Can I—”

Bucky’s hand stopped short, suspended in the air between them. It was only a gesture. Steve’s pulse quickened. He didn’t dare look at Bucky. 

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said again.

Bucky gripped his bicep firm, felt along his shoulders, skated down his sides, a pantomime of the Brooklyn routine after a bad fight, a check-up for assurance. They were close enough Steve could count the worn threads in Bucky’s wool shirt and smell the sharp scent of his new and old sweat, familiar from previous years and recent weeks tangled together in each other’s space. Steve risked a glance up. He couldn’t read Bucky’s expression. 

“I’m still me, Buck.”

His hand rested on Steve’s right arm, above the elbow. Steve studied it. The rifle callouses, the dirt under his nails. 

Bucky’s thumb slowly moved an inch, barely at all, dragging through the fine hairs below Steve’s hemmed sleeve. 

It was the smallest tender movement, it was a thunderclap. 

Steve’s breath stuttered and he was sixteen again.

 

Bucky shows him the risque pin-up girl cards he’s borrowed from Danny O’Connell’s brother outside, hurry up, and every single drop of blood in Steve’s body rushes directly to his dick with world record speed; he has to palm himself for relief and Bucky looks right at him, oh god, the way he looks at the life guard on Coney Island in the summers, the fucking perfect kid Steve hates, and Steve tears his eyes away, it’s too much, back to the cards, and he hears Bucky’s belt buckle clinking and there’s a girl on this one card with her breasts just fully bared, just right out there, god, they’re so pale and full and round and soft and he bets if he held one in his hand it’d be warm and weighty and he thinks about sucking on them, supple warmth in his mouth, and then Bucky groans deep, and he thinks about sucking on them while Bucky watches, while Bucky touches himself watching, and Steve comes fast and hard and hot, all over Danny O’Connell’s brother’s cards, gasping, staring up at Bucky, wide-eyed, the sound of slick flesh sliding against flesh that will replay in his memory for years and years, Bucky’s cock—

 

His brain moved ahead and unearthed helpful suggestions, fantasies he never dared commit to sketchbook paper, not even to burn right after. 

Bucky’s hand dropped and left a fading warm imprint. He missed it immediately, keenly.

“Wozniak caught two buddies last month. One guy was married back home and everything. Just wanted his johnson sucked. Regiment transfer instead of a blue ticket, lucky bastard.” Bucky opened his tobacco and paper tin.

 

“I’d do it for you, I’d make it good.” The new USO girl grinds down on him in the dressing room while they pass around a flask. He’s ostensibly here to ask about scheduling but JoAnn pours a shot and Mamie has him in a chair with his costume half-off. 

“He ain’t never had it neither, look at him blushing!”

“Aw, leave him alone, Mamie.” Betty shakes her head. “Stevie don’t you pay her no mind.”

“He’s punched Hitler twenty times, it’s a patriotic duty to reward him for his service.” She peeps at him under her lashes, coy, and runs her palm up his inseam to trace his arousal.

Steve imagines it’s Peggy. He jolts up, awkward and bulky, sick of himself. 

“Sorry.” He exits in a flustered rush, rearranging the costume. He forgets which door is his dressing room, opens one that in hindsight must’ve been locked, and freezes stock still, one man kneeling between another’s knees —

“Privacy, please?” someone says testily as he stands there gaping.

 

A public restroom, by the baseball stadium, clutching his ma’s hand when she opens a door and gasps, remembering only two men with their trousers dropped, his ma pulling him away, shushing, mama what happened.

 

“What?” Steve stuttered, replaying the last few seconds. Everything was spooling into plain view, flat-footed and caught out.

“A transfer,” Bucky repeated, as if that was the confusing part. “I ain’t doing that. No way. You idiots never watch your six.” He cut his hand across the air and finished rolling the cigarette. It was shaking.

“Bucky—”

“So when’s Captain America’s next dance with Peggy Carter?” he asked evenly. Steve could see Bucky's jaw ticking, the cloud gathered on his brow.

Steve set his hands on his hips and studied the overlapping boot prints in the tent’s mud. He read back between the lines, getting slow-grade whiplash. So that was it. Slam this door shut like it had never opened. _Just wanted his johnson sucked._ Did — did Bucky want to? Fall on his knees, take him in — Oh god, HE wanted to — Put that thought away very carefully. 

He leaned over the map and stared at the capital of Poland. A thread of anger wound up and couldn't say who or what it was directed towards. The world at large, perhaps.

“When’s my next dance with Carter,” he repeated. “You—” He stopped, started again. “Peggy isn’t some— I don’t know what you think, Buck. I think I’m in love with her. And if I’m a lucky man at all, maybe she could love me too.”

“Then I’m happy for you, pal.” Bucky said.

Steve clenched his fists. Grab him, reel him in. Instead the map tore, a thin vertical line appearing. 

"Don't you make me choose," he said, and knew it was a selfish beg. He'd always been terrified of what he'd throw away for Bucky. He took a breath. "She sees me. Same as you've always seen me." 

It was clumsy. It was the most intimate thing he'd ever admitted.

Bucky met Steve's gaze like a challenge, searching for a weakness or lie. His expression grew soft, the hard lines draining. 

“Yeah, she does,” he sighed and Steve’s heart ached. “Christ, sit down and take a smoke.” Bucky mumbled a string of curses as he fumbled with a lighter. 

The scent of cheap tobacco. 

“Steve,” he pled low. 

A deep melancholy seeped through Steve’s bones, a yearning for Brooklyn and his ma, God rest her. He took the cigarette and touched his lips to the end, tasted paper and tobacco and how it was lightly damp from Bucky’s mouth.

 

Steve lay on the sweat-soaked bed, the now ever-present pain abiding incrementally, and listened to Bucky pace the safehouse, measuring out seconds of time.

***

Secured line:  
Dr. Curtis Connors, CDC Director  
Elizabeth Allan, Secretary of Health & Human Services

“We gotta have more time.”

“Curt, no. The CDC reported a positive response in 100% of the rhesus cohort.”

“I know what we reported, I’m saying we don’t understand the long-term implications. This wasn't trialed in humans, adverse events crop up in a population this large.”

“Let me tell you, I’ve got case reports in LA, London and Tokyo this morning. On top of the ones leaking in PA and Jersey. Now it’s under wraps, but if we don’t roll out right now, shit is truly going to hit the fan. We can’t wait. I won’t withhold treatment.”

“Get off the moral high horse, Liz. You wanna talk ethics? We fuck this up and we do irreparable harm to the public trust.”

“Your own lab paid HYDRA sympathizers until last year, that’s a bold argument to make.”

“Fine, HHS has authority to move forward, you don’t need my fucking permission.”

“No, but I need you at the press conference today.”

***

Tony slammed down his coffee mug and it cracked, spilling liquid that certainly wasn’t coffee onto the front security desk and the Stark Tower logo on the lobby floor. He glared at the STRIKE team agents positioned by the doors. Rhodes relaxed against the security desk and mock tsk-tsk’d the spreading puddle on the floor.

Ross’s tinny voice came across on the phone. “I’m not recalling them until we arrest Barnes and Rogers, we’ve been over this.”

And, honestly, how else had he expected this to go, Tony admitted. He tinkered with the squishy stress ball Pepper gifted him last year, the smiley face distending. She'd like this story later. 

“Sir, Stark Industries is a key cog in this beautiful military-industrial complex you’ve got going, and I’ve played nice for years under this administration. If I were you, I’d think long and hard about keeping an occupying force in my place of business.”

“Watch what you’re saying to me, Stark.”

“Oh I’m watching, maybe even with glee.” A modified Roomba wet-vacced the floor, polishing the logo. “It would really suck to explain to the President and General Clarke why a significant fraction of the Pentagon budget suddenly needs a new supplier. This is a private corporation, not a wing of the DOD.”

“You’d tank your own business,” Ross scoffed.

“No one’s ever called me self-destructive.”

Rhodes raised an eyebrow and smirked as the silence on the other end stretched out.

“Fine. I’ll recall the Tower team,” Ross clipped shortly.

“Appreciate that, sir.”

“You know, I never liked you much either. I’m not forgetting this conversation.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve recorded it, sir.”

Tony enjoyed the satisfaction for a beat. Was this how Rogers felt after his righteous fits? It was nice, he could understand the appeal. 

Rhodes chuckled and shook his head. “He's gotta figure they're coming here.”

Tony put on his sunglasses. Things were brighter by the minute. “So don’t welcome them in the front door.”

***

CNN:

“… many of the hospital staff are saying--

“Gina, I’m going to have to interrupt you because we have breaking news right now, happening right now, the emergency incident commander is holding a press conference, let’s go live.”

“Good afternoon, everybody. I’m incident commander Dr. Curtis Connors from the CDC. First and foremost, we will be administering new cofactor treatment to all patients, effective immediately. Our thoughts and prayers remain with those affected and their families. I want to commend the staff at CDC, NIH, the World Health Organization, Stark Industries and the Wakanda Department of Health & Safety for working so quickly address this epidemic. There is no doubt in my mind we will stop it here. I want to emphasize that this cofactor treatment is expected to be safe and non-toxic. Doctor N’yongo is here to speak on the details and take questions. Second, we will be lifting the shelter-in-place in phases, district by district. Residents are mandated to visit their local EMS response tent for a prophylactic dose of cofactor 22. General Clarke and our EMS chief Doctor Temple will also speak and take questions… ”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But the war also gave me knowledge that I don’t know how to live with. It taught me that the world is a dangerous place. That death is random. That governments lie as a matter of course. That time is elastic. That terror is relative._  
>  — David J. Morris

"FRIDAY, engage covert entry parameters." The muffled command filtered through as Rhodes swung the car around. A squeaky brake rotor complained. Bucky held back a sneeze again; Christ, had someone put a whole dog kennel in here? Then the lid unlatched and lifted in a rush of fresh air to reveal the Tower sub-level garage. After a suffocating week at the safehouse, a few minutes spent crammed into a sedan trunk were hardly uncomfortable. 

Bucky unfolded his joints and ducked to help Steve. He brushed two fingers along the inside of his wrist: check the temperature, pulse, fever far too high. Steve grimaced and doubled, clutching his side and catching his breath against the trunk lip. Bucky shouldered most of his weight, less now than the rescue a week ago. The serum was overwhelmed. Just get him to the elevator. One step, another step. Help was so close and yet everything moved too slow. 

Hill met them at the threshold. “Steve, it’s Maria.” She flicked a rattled glance to Bucky. “Lab’s ready.”

“Good to be back,” Steve managed, pale with pain. 

Bucky closed his eyes for a brief respite and FRIDAY smoothly took them up and up. Whatever happened next, Steve wasn’t slipping away in the abandoned stench of a HYDRA safehouse. He was exhausted. Stay focused. 

The clinical lab floor was markedly less frantic than his last visit. Powered-down equipment waited in various packed stages for shipment, and several desks had been cleared out. The blue decon tent was conspicuously absent, thank god. 

Unfortunately it had been replaced with a cheerfully rested Tony Stark in a shirt exclaiming HELL’S BELLS.

“My two sad popsicle soldiers!” He clapped his hands together, then grew serious as he got a good look at Steve. 

Steve tilted his head. “Hi, Tony.”

“Jesus, you look like shit, Rogers,” Tony muttered. “Tin Man, Hill, make yourselves useful and get him on the stretcher.” He gestured to where a small medical team in scrubs assembled. “And take off that mask, we’re all dosed. Dr. Cho and Simmons are at Presby, but judging by Cap’s deathly pallor, probably shouldn’t wait. Been living my best life this morning, can’t have a national hero expiring on the premises.”

“Thank you,” Steve said with the horrible earnestness that compelled Bucky to both roll his eyes and follow him into burning buildings. They eased him onto the stretcher, right arm and leg stubbornly dragging.

“Hey, don’t try to worm your way back into my heart while you’re on death’s doorstep.” 

A tiny robot zoomed past as they wheeled Steve through the medical wing. Tall bright lights and ominous monitoring equipment was arranged in a semi-circle staging area. The blinds were closed. Strangers in scrubs exchanged hushed whispers, prepping for whatever the hell was going to happen. Bucky’s shoulders hunched with tension; it was like the hospital again, or worse, the secret DHS suite. Stay calm, he had to stay calm. Steve contorted with another paroxysm of pain, good hand fluttering to grab at his side. His chest heaved, reminiscent of the asthma years.

Hill’s expression went tight. “Tony, we need Cho.”

“Relax, I’ve got an expert on the line.” Tony pressed a button on his watch and Bucky felt relief for the first time in days: Shuri's bluish purple holograph projected out, arms crossed over her lab coat.

“I give away one broken white man, he comes back with a second,” Shuri teased, her voice tinged by static but familiar, a lifebuoy tossed to them in a storm. The holograph fuzzed as she approached.

“Shuri?”

“How are you feeling, Captain Rogers?”

Tony scoffed at the question and began setting up a complicated machine that resembled an airport body x-ray. Faint musical strains from an electric guitar wailed into the background.

“Been better.” Steve tilted his head to find her, disoriented.

She looked at Bucky. “No more Rambo missions.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Bucky checked his phone. Sam had texted a thumbs-up cartoon, emoji, whatever they were. A cascade of news alerts: MIRACLE IN MANHATTAN. He felt a small, tentative hope bloom, like the universe was slowly shifting back onto its axis, the chaos righting itself.

“Shoes and sunglasses off,” Tony called.

Steve folded the sunglasses and pressed his left hand to his temple with a grunt. The migraine. Bucky touched his shoulder, shirt already sweat-dampened, _let me help_ , and loosened the boot laces he’d tied earlier in the safehouse, one foot dead weight.

Shuri addressed him gently. “Captain Rogers—”

“Please, just Steve.”

“We will see where the infection has hidden and what kind of damage we must repair,” Shuri explained as monitors came online behind her. “Because your body has been fighting back, it is a little complicated. We have limited capabilities here.”

Stark paused in his assembly. “Excuse me, limited?”

Shuri shrugged and spread her hands. “No vibranium source. Where is the lie.”

“This won’t hurt?” Bucky set aside Steve’s boots and peered at the hulking equipment.

“Don’t touch anything or I really will kill you. This is a state-of-the-art beta test for a wildly successful medical device company. What’s going to happen — painlessly, I might add — is Cap lays right…” Tony maneuvered Steve into position. “Here. And then this baby does some very fucking sophisticated imaging.”

Shuri clarified. “The infection changes protein spectral properties. Quite basic.”

“Okay, sure, the concept is basic.” Tony circled to the monitor display Shuri was remotely adjusting.

Bucky watched Steve’s outline on the screens shift color, bright patches of neon red emerging from the blue and green. Shuri carefully highlighted the patches, centered near the liver and brain, and fine-tuned the details. The edges shifted between red and green. 

“Well, it is not unexpected, based on the symptoms.”

“How’s it look, Doc?” Steve asked, trying for false bravado but ending taunt and thin.

“Your body has isolated the infection to the hepatic and cerebral tissues.”

“So it’s hanging out in your brain and liver, but now your liver is a clogged sink,” Tony explained. “We inject the cofactor into the tissue to break it up. Medical Drain-O.”

“It is trickier with the brain and ocular nerves,” Shuri admitted. She enlarged the scan images and rotated a giant hairball system of nerves and vessels. “Your serum must repair the synapses to regular function for your vision to heal.”

“It will,” Bucky said, for no reason other than maybe it would self-fulfill. She had fixed the trigger words, surely this was possible.

“The recovery is just, uncertain,” Shuri sighed.

“I mean, silver lining, if you were a normal person you’d definitely be dead,” Tony offered.

“What about ocular transplant?” Hill asked.

Tony glanced at Shuri. “Even if we had a spare pair of eyeballs, there are zero instances of successful optic nerve regrowth after a transplant. Unless we’re talking bionics, which could probably include some enhancements, I mean, how do you feel about telescopic options? Theoretically—”

“No,” Steve and Bucky said in unison.

“Touchy subject,” Tony muttered.

“We’ll prep for cofactor injection right away,” Shuri said. “And let’s remove that port too, agreed?”

“No more doctor visits after this,” Steve groaned, medical staff wheeling him from the machine.

He was too frail this way. Bucky stared at Steve’s socked feet and jaundiced skin, eyes shut to block the light and pain and awfulness. Shuri and Tony conferred over the scan images as Hill stepped away to call Fury. The medical team began to scrub down. Bucky gripped the stretcher railing and accidentally bent it, god, he had to stop doing that. The weight of what Shuri said slowly settled between them.

Steve tilted his head towards Bucky. “Always thought I could draw you with my eyes closed.” The words came slower now.

“Sure, Picasso.” He forced himself to banter. 

“Yeah, yeah. I mean the way you are now, the way you were before.” Steve squeezed his eyes shut harder, as if they might fly open on their own accord. “God help me, I’m greedy and I’m selfish.” He reached and Bucky guided his hand, Steve’s heavy fever-hot touch on his shoulder, traveling to his neck, cupping his cheek rough against the stubble. “Wanna draw you the way you’ll be tomorrow. Maybe next year.”

“You shut up with that sentimental crap, Rogers,” Bucky whispered fiercely. “I’m right here.”

Steve’s hand slid back to grip his shoulder, stronger than he’d any right to be. “I thought if you stayed in Wakanda... All those months I spent hunting HYDRA, it’d be enough to keep you safe. Without me.” He swallowed hard. “God, I was so stupid. Think I was scared of a good thing when I could’ve had it.”

“Yeah, well, that don’t make you the first idiot,” Bucky murmured thickly. “Never been much good staying apart.”

Steve cracked a small smile as footsteps approached.

“Captain Rogers? We’re ready.”

***

No more sedation. The lights were off. A cool numbing spread behind his eyelids. Metal clamps, a latex glove, the faintest pressure. The scintillating shape that had eaten the center of his vision suddenly dissipated into a uniform blur, like a watercolor left in the rain. He nodded once — yes, he was okay, sure, this was just fine. Sharp scent of an alcohol wipe, a quick cold touch, then a pinch and more pressure at his swollen liver. Yes, still fine, time for local anesthetic and removing the port, all right. This wasn’t Erksine, or the yellow quarantine tent, or DHS; he was in Stark Tower. Nothing like that. Sure.

“Hey, Buck?” His tongue was heavy and it slurred.

“Yeah.”

“Read me something?” 

Medical instruments clinked. He heard a paperback page rustle and Bucky cleared his throat.

“The Clan lived by unchanging tradition.” His voice was gravelly-soft and teased hints of Brooklyn. “Every facet of their lives from the time they were born until they were called to the world of the spirits was circumscribed by the past… ” 

He was so, so tired. It was okay. Bucky was here. The molasses oozed down and he let it take him for a moment.

***

Natasha lay perfectly still, gathering her thoughts and bearings. A hospital, pain. A civilian hospital, low pain. A New York City hospital. 

“Doctor… Cho.” She identified the woman standing bedside at a safe distance.

“Agent Romanoff. You’re at NYC Presby,” Cho said slowly. “You were infected three days ago; I dosed you with antidote this morning. Do you remember what happened?”

She blinked. Infected, antidote. New York City. Steve, the subway, the mutant— “Steve, is he?”

“Recovering at Stark Tower with the others. He'd be here if he could.”

She relaxed back on the bed. Her left leg was casted to the hip, shit. She noticed the shattered window and bullet holes sprayed in the plaster. The bed next to her was empty. Interesting. She hated missing the good parts. 

Cho cleared her throat and passed Natasha a new cellphone. “Fury wants to debrief you. Are you…?”

Natasha waved her away. “Been worse. Thanks, doc.”

She could fill in most of the blanks from the news first, before the real story from Fury. Natasha turned over the ill-fated scenario in her memory. She remembered thinking she should’ve taken the shot, annoyed. Then blankness. A typical end for this kind of work. She was familiar with close calls and the consequences of mortality. And she was alive. She continued. Barton always said the right thing to smooth it over and shrug it off. Rogers tried, he did. God, Steve could’ve— She shut away the thought. You are made of marble. Agents, friends, they came and went; it was the nature of the business. Her leg would heal and she would go back for another mission, and another, because she was the best and this family, this work, was all she had. Her walls were built high and sturdy, constructed with care. It wasn’t like that for everyone.

***

Sam threaded his fingers together and listened to Sara clutch her two boys close, balanced between the twin hospital beds, her braids a curtain around them. He was struck again by her strength and protectiveness. He’d been a part of this family, once.

“Why’s Unc here?” Jimmy asked, too young to understand how he’d toed the grave and oblivious to the heartache. Jody stared.

“Cause we were all scared for you, baby,” Sara murmured, brushing over his shirt. “Are you hungry? Did Nurse Maria give you anything?”

“Crackers and juice for two hours,” a nurse cautioned from the doorway.

Sam watched Sara dig in her purse for the Ziploc baggie of animal crackers and Cheerios and wished he had something half as useful. Hell, he wished he could cry with relief that everything was okay after all. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, as if he’d fucked up his big brother role so badly the only logical outcome was suffering.

“I wanna go home,” Jody said, ignoring the juicebox straw.

He sounded just like his brother, quiet but stubborn.

Later, Sara signed the hospital paperwork for check-out, Jimmy close by her legs and Jody balanced easily on her hip, bundled in his winter coat. He stared at Sam, judging whether family or stranger, threat or friend. His tiny wrist was wrapped in a plastic hospital band. Sara slung her purse over her other shoulder and rubbed Jimmy’s head.

“So.” She regarded Sam. “Ma’s on her way. You heading out?”

Was he? Again? Sam jammed his fists in his pockets and faced these two kids he barely knew and the sister who’d grown into a woman wiser than him. They fit together in a messy family way he’d almost forgotten from his childhood. They didn’t need him, but maybe he needed them.

***

Steve opened his eyes. 

The first thing, above all else, was the hollow absence of staggering pain. Tension coiled low and monotonous. But, oh, he could think.

The sun shone past the blinds in soft yellow slats of light and spinning dust motes floated on invisible drafts. He breathed out and knew this place. The Tower apartment bedroom. He turned his head to the nightstand where a digital alarm clock stated 1502 and the date in little bold red dashes. A full two days. Kaleidoscope dots peppered his sight. They drifted side to side and absorbed to a darkly fuzzy periphery. Better. Frustratingly imperfect. His sketchbook waited near the bedside lamp, below a dog-eared old paperback. The rest of the room was bare, filled with the ghosts of furniture and bland decor he'd once used to try and make a home.

Steve stretched muscle by muscle and felt new skin taut over the port cavity, his abdomen lean instead of distended with fluid. He flexed both his hands, his toes. Incredible to move so easily. He swung out of bed and stepped quietly into the hall, the living room.

Bucky’s back was to Steve as he meditated on the carpet where the couch had once been. Steve’s breath caught. And, of course, Bucky always knew when he was being watched.

The pose dropped.

“Let me look at you, just let me look at you,” Steve whispered. He was a starving man presented with a feast, every facet and angle as he remembered, but in technicolor vividness not readily captured by the mind’s eye. The color in his irises, skin a fading tan, the fine hairs on his right arm, scarred seam on his left shoulder.

Bucky rose. “Oh thank god.”

Steve filed away each step, each shift of the hips, the tilt of his head, how his lips were slightly chapped from the cold, the way his stubble curved into shadow under his chin, the boy he had loved, the man he loved, and all his aged pain and careful hope.

He kissed him sure and steady.

Bucky broke off and glanced at the ceiling; surveillance. “Steve. You just woke up, we should—”

“Please. Please, I need this.” The words wrenched from him and Steve set his jaw, baring his stripped-down vulnerabilities in the crushing urge to confirm, to know for certain, he was here and alive. Anything to soothe the memory of oppressive pain and fear that had ruled him for days, that had frozen him colder than the ice. He watched Bucky’s gaze darken. 

The next kiss wasn’t half as chaste.

“Is it ok?” he asked, low enough for the bugs to miss it, running his hands along Bucky’s sides with an undercurrent of frantic energy.

“Yeah, yes, fuck,” Bucky grunted into the shell of Steve’s ear and made him shiver. It was like a shot going off.

***

The news echoed around the apartment suite: flights resumed, a class action lawsuit filed, a memorial service scheduled for this weekend. There was a two-minute segment on the DHS terrorist attack with an old mugshot of Bucky captioned, WHERE'S CAPTAIN AMERICA? Steve closed the livestream and watched the tablet upload his latest vitals stats. He had already visited Cho for a follow-up, his new scan absent any red, then plowed through three spaghetti boxes and a frozen pizza. He’d been exclusively burning energy for a week and his body craved calories. 

Steve drummed his fingers on the tabletop. The fresh silence was oppressive and his mind circled. Whatever had happened at DHS, it needed to be uprooted and burned. Every minute was more time for covered tracks, another minute of passive acceptance fueling the cold angry knot. To think he'd chased HYDRA across Europe only for the rot to regrow here in the States. For Bucky to have saved his life, again, only to forfeit his freedom, again. It was a cruel carnival game and Steve was at its mercy. He couldn't abide by that.

Steve checked his email and texts. No reply from Fury to the various inquiries he'd sent about the kid, the mutants. If they even had family.

He went back to the bedroom and began unpacking his duffel. Between Sam hurriedly cramming in supplies for the safehouse and then Bucky taking care of it, the bag was now a lumpy conglomeration of sweaty shirts, wrinkled pants, and socks with a peculiar wet dog odor. Where Bucky was fastidious about his firearms, these days he was less particular about dirty laundry. Steve rubbed his forehead. Apparently his tactical suit was cut off and discarded at the hospital. He sorted the clothes and dug out his toiletry kit, a charger for the phone he no longer had, wallet, his pocket notepad, and the compass. He ran his thumb over the worn compass in a fond caress before setting it aside. Could’ve sworn he had another black t-shirt. And where was...? He riffled through the mostly-empty wallet, the notepad and jeans pockets, unzipped the toiletry kit, checked the duffel corners. Steve’s chest clenched a little and he braced his fists in the bedsheets. 

He’d lost Bucky’s photo.

The sketchbook on the nightstand caught his eye. Steve grabbed it, flipped the pages. Maybe, maybe, it had gotten stuck... there. He sighed with tangible relief and sat down on the bed. Then looked at the pages bookmarked by the faded Army portrait of James Buchanan Barnes. Old Stark Expo sketches, Bucky in his crisp new uniform. The placement wasn’t accidental. He blushed at the idea of Bucky finding his photo, these drawings. This thing between them coming into light more boldly. Well, there was no helping it. Steve carefully closed the sketchbook. Just like there was no helping the conversation he had to have upstairs. 

Steve started a mundane load of laundry and then rode the elevator to Stark’s lab. The mechanical engineering floor was dark, technical benches all packed away and rock music conspicuously absent. One lamp glowed in the back. Steve stopped short as the little robot motored past, then followed it to where Tony reclined behind a desk piled with scan printouts. His scan printouts, Steve realized. Tony swigged a tumbler of brown liquor and studied Steve over the rims of his reading glasses. 

“Lazarus walks. You don’t have to keep thanking me, you know. I mean, you can. Actually, please do.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. That was nice. It was mostly Simmons, you should send her flowers or eternal gratitude.”

“Or a Nobel. She's earned it.” Steve held up one of the scans, the messy red infection readings unmistakable. His weaknesses obvious. “Anything from Nat?”

“Called while you were sleeping beauty, said she’d be by tomorrow and to stop leaving her voicemails.”

Steve half-smiled and set down the scans. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Tony, I mean it. And not just for me.”

“But.”

“But you know I won’t sign the Accords.”

Tony pointed his glasses at Steve accusingly. “Did you know you’re the most infuriating hundred-year-old man I’ve ever met? Barnes I can hate and pity fifty-fifty, but you, you’re so fucking righteously stubborn it gives me stomach ulcers.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Feeling sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he snapped. “Feel as sorry as you want.”

Steve settled on an opposing desk and crossed his arms. It was time to have this talk for both their sakes. “I meant what I wrote, Tony. I don’t want us working against each other.”

“We had a good family going, and you decided to start a messy divorce, that’s what happened." Tony kicked his sneakers atop the scans. "We’re sharing kids on the weekends now, you’ve been run out of the house and FRIDAY tells me you’re shacking up with the homewrecker but sure, let’s be friends. Feel free to interrupt if I’m extending this metaphor too far.” Tony mock-toasted his glass to Steve knowingly and downed the last of the liquor.

He’d expected as much, but still flushed; these were private matters. “Leave Bucky out of it.”

“Tin Man killed my parents. HYDRA may have pulled the trigger but he was the gun, and I’ll never forgive him that. So, no, we’re not leaving him out of it.”

“What I do in my personal life is my prerogative. And his. I’m not Captain America anymore, Tony,” he said, casting away a different type of shield.

“So you’ve mentioned.” Tony held up his hands. “Trust me when I say I’m the last person to judge sexual proclivities, gramps. That’s not what this is about. He tried to fucking kill half the team.” He kept going before Steve could interrupt. “Sure, brainwashed. I can buy that. I read the file. It gave me super fucked-up nightmares. I have bottomless gallons of empathy. I just don’t trust him. The two of you together? It’s a wildcard. You’re devoted to each other. So you can be sorry, you can want to be friends, you can be Mister Rogers in your neighborhood, but tell me Barnes wouldn’t burn down the world for you?”

Steve pursed his mouth. It went without saying. Tony nodded darkly.

“So maybe I stand in your way someday. Play the villain.”

“You’re not a villain, Tony.”

“That’s sweet.”

Steve smiled ruefully. “Then let’s hope I’ll have the wisdom to listen to a trusted friend.” He caught Tony’s gaze, an echo of Howard’s. “I know you’ll do what you think is right; I’ll always respect that.”

“Jesus, did you lift that from a middle school civics textbook?” Tony opened a desk drawer and retrieved a fifth of whiskey. “Enough of the serious shoptalk. You’re alive, we saved the world, yadda yadda. Right now, we have another drink.”

***

Bucky pressed the treadmill speed button and accelerated with the track. A five minute pace meant he’d break a sweat. He hadn't slept more than an hour or two in days. At first he couldn’t risk hurting Steve during another nightmare. Now he was afraid of what he’d see. There was a new shade. The woman: Her Program. The longer they puzzled who and why, the more restless dread creeped in. It was impossible to aim without a target. He increased the speed and focused on his body’s rhythmic movement, always slightly uneven on the left, the whoosh of breath in and out, lungs filling and expelling. He increased it higher and only his breath remained. This was peaceful, finally.

At twelve miles, the television above the treadmill caught his eye and he slowed, stopped. BREAKING: CDC Identifies Meat Plant Outbreak Source, No Terrorism.

Bucky stood still as his heart pounded. He recalled, vividly, a fragment from the war, before the torture but during those horrific first few weeks. Private Reynolds from San Diego, California, father of one, married to his high school sweetheart, stepped out to take a piss and took a stray shell right to the head. They hadn’t been shelled in days. It made no sense. No more sense than what they did to the old Bucky Barnes later, or finding Steve seventy years after they’d both died, or his random immunity in this outbreak. If he thought about it too much he imagined himself like a small rowboat in a dark ocean, buffeted by waves beyond his comprehension. He ran a finger over the kimoyo beads. Control what you can and let the rest go. Control: Find who commissioned the kidnapping.

***

“Sam!" Steve grinned and rose as Sam wandered into the dim lab. "Got your message, good to see you again.” He clapped him in a hug and smelled Old Spice and the pizza cart on 47th, familiar and reassuring.

“Yeah, literally. Man, it’s good to see you too.” Sam held Steve at arm’s length for inspection. “Back to your old self, huh?” 

“More or less, depends on the decade.” 

Sam shook his head and smiled. “Oh, he’s got jokes now. Seriously though, how are you?”

How was he? Like he’d crumble apart without a second’s notice, little more than disconnected body parts around a hollow core. He was holding it together. They needed him. He had to get past this. 

“I’m good, Sam. Really,” Steve said before the conviction slipped away.

“That’s great.” Sam peered at him, expression shifting as he decided to shelve another conversation for later. “Real great. Hey, you hear from Natasha yet?”

“Not since Cho’s update. Tony said she’d be by tomorrow.” Steve's grimaced. “Hate being cooped up here, this damned business with Ross.”

“Nat’s a tough one. She gets it. You and Barnes are on all the popular Wanted lists. Potts must be working the phones to keep Ross out.” Sam looked beyond Steve and wrinkled his nose. Tony snored on the scan readouts, reading glasses askew by an empty fifth of whiskey.

Steve raised a second half-drained bottle from the desk in askance.

Sam waved a hand. “Shoulda known that smell, my gramps’ favorite.”

“How’s your family?” Steve poured himself two more fingers. The alcohol left a harsh burn in his throat and warmth in his belly. It was better than nothing.

Sam deflated into an office chair, one squeaky wheel protesting. He still wore his winter jacket and his boots were wet with melted snow. His normally trim goatee had grown out amid the chaos of the past week. Sam leaned his head back into the gloom. 

“Steve, I’ve never been more scared than I was sitting there, seeing those two kids hooked to machines twice their size. Scared the shit out of me.” He looked up. “Pour me one after all?”

Sam swirled the drink and Steve perched on a desk, Tony snoring lightly. 

“I missed a lot of shit serving overseas. Came home and all of a sudden my little sis is getting kicked out of my ma’s house. She cleaned up, but I missed that part too. Caught in my own head after Riley.” He paused for a shaky breath. “If anything had happened to them…”

Steve wondered at how little he truly knew about Sam, a man he considered a close friend, a teammate in every sense. Was he so self-absorbed and mission-driven he never stopped to ask after Sam's life, his family? He felt a pang. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry. I just— Well, when this is all over, I’m thinking of staying in New York for a while. I can’t go on the run again, Steve.”

Steve nodded slowly. Was it so surprising? He’d dragged them through hell. It was bound to happen eventually, but he couldn’t help the disappointment.

“I’ve got friends at the VA begging for more staff,” Sam was saying. “I wanna go to my ma’s on football Sundays, root for the Jets. Get to know my sis. Hell, maybe even try dating,” he chuckled.

Steve seized a thought and leaned forward. Maybe... “Take the shield, then. Please. God knows this country still needs it. You’re a good man—”

Sam held up a hand and his expression clouded. “You’re not hearing me, Steve. I appreciate what you’re saying, but that’s crazy talk.” 

He sank back, confused. 

“I’m Falcon. Not Captain America. That was your persona, not mine. It's not a promotion you give out.” Sam considered his empty glass. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on missions. I know how easy it is to get caught in the adrenaline trap, the fucking rush of it, man. I love serving my country, I do. But I stay away too long, I’m not gonna have a home to come back to.”

The kernel of truth settled in Steve’s gut like a stone. He had already lived it once. Maybe it was the only thing he knew how to do, the thing he was doomed to repeat.

“Gonna miss you on the road.”

“Yeah cause my ass is the reason you two ever stopped to eat a square meal. You gotta promise to take better care of yourself.” 

A news alert buzzed, interrupting. Sam checked his phone and scoffed. “CDC found the outbreak source. Bad meat, that's fucking it.”

***

Bucky set aside his journal. _Her program._ The memories stubbornly refused to come and raw frustration threatened to send him spiraling. Breathe. He picked up Steve’s sketchbook next to him on the carpet and paged through it. The drawings soothed him. He stopped at one: Portrait of the artist as a young man, read Steve’s carefully cramped handwriting. A skinny overly-serious boy worked at his desk, the concentrated twist in his lips too old an expression and copied a little too closely from the mirror. Bucky watched Steve read the news on his tablet, propped in bed. He knew how to find the other version of Steve hiding in this one: the nose, the eyebrows, those sharp cheekbones. The small rediscoveries abruptly filled him with fondness, surprising as a tender bud surfacing in snow.

He closed the sketchbook and considered the city’s midnight sprawl from the apartment windows. Manhattan recovered to its standard hustle and bustle as though nothing terribly traumatic had happened days ago. Necessity healed wounds; people needed to eat, work, go on living. A few financial buildings scrolled the latest stock market rebound figures, Times Square bracketed by red and white taxi lights. He envied these people, how easy it seemed for them to forge onward. The asset had moved from mission to mission. But the asset did not feel, and Bucky did. The asset couldn’t hate.

“Come to bed, please.” A soft murmur, balm on a burn.

Bucky obliged in one fluid movement and after a few minutes let Steve reach out, tentative at first, pausing askance on his waistband, fingers hesitating. They didn't flinch when the cooler vibranium interlaced with them, working towards the same goal. Bucky flushed as Steve rolled to bracket him, slow enough to telegraph his intentions, the gentle puff of Steve's breath on the scarred seam, then tickling the hairs down his chest. He’d never been ashamed of his nakedness, before or after, but it was one thing to accept the facts of a body and another to love them the way Steve did. To be loved this well by any man was blessing enough, and for it to be Steve, his whole heart — that he might have this thing, after all the decades and misery? He didn't take a single touch for granted. 

He could see Steve tenting his pajama pants and, well, they were really gonna do this again in a bugged room, part of Bucky’s brain muttered. He imagined reciprocity, taking Steve into his mouth, heavy on his tongue and full against the back of his throat, too much, not enough air, choking, he had to breathe, he didn't, they were going to — _brace for the pain_ — Bucky brought himself back with a start and Steve had paused, a hand over Bucky's kimoyo beads. In, out. The moment hung fragile. He was here, with Steve. A nod yes, okay, keep going, please keep going. Bucky snorted as his dick stirred to life; good old fight or flight, god how fucking ridiculous.

But the rest of it, oh, the rest of it.

Bucky sagged into the mattress and pressed his lips together as the sensations _warm breath wet tongue soft stroking_ rolled in waves and then incredibly, impossibly built. More and more and more, seconds, minutes, unendingly, and he teetered on the brink of surrender, the threat of letting go, but to do it, to give in, he couldn’t— he was going to, he couldn’t— keep control— he looked down and Steve saw him, eyes blown dark and wide— Oh. The release pulsed out in a warm surge. It wasn’t the inevitable fast hot spill of before, or what he thought he remembered from before, but sweet Jesus it was good. Bucky gripped the sheets, twisted the fabric tight, left hand ripping through, overwhelmed, and then Steve was there to press against him like this was the one time they had to do any of this, and Bucky pulled him close. “C’mon, I got you.” He tasted himself thick and salty inside Steve's mouth, felt the muscles in Steve’s ass contract beneath both his hands, the trembling tension, and god he wanted Steve to let go, release it all, everything he held closed off below the surface, _please I need this_ , and he could give Steve that, he wanted to, and he felt down the small of Steve’s back where it curved, going lower, warmer, pressing there firm and slow, inside him a different way, he wanted every way— Steve’s rhythm stuttered and he came with a bit-off gasp Bucky could’ve mistaken for pain, if he wasn’t so familiar with the sounds of real pain.

Later, he tucked under the sheets and settled to study the dappled light patterns across the ceiling. Steve watched him. Did it show on his face, all his festering dark thoughts? Bucky no longer wondered if Steve would still love him, touch him, if he knew them. Of course he would. Not because Steve was adoring in a reckless, stupid way — but because he had that darkness too. It was what happened when you went to war and killed men and never came home.

“One of the trigger words they programmed was a shutdown code. Say it and I— the Soldier would go down like a sack of bricks every time. Not knocked out. This was… being nothing. You know.”

A long silence. “This why you haven’t been sleeping?”

“You wanna know what the word was?” He fought the syllables, the fear. “Sputnik.” He let out all the air in his lungs with a whoosh. “So, it doesn’t work now.”

Steve rolled up on an elbow. “No, sure doesn’t,” he agreed quietly. 

Bucky stayed focused on the ceiling. He didn’t cry for himself anymore. And Steve, god bless, spared him the platitudes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky reads from _The Clan of the Cave Bear_ , by Jean M. Auel (1980).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one must take off his mask?_  
>  — Soren Kierkegaard

Natasha spied the tense lines of Steve's figure facing the lab floor, where Simmons and Cho orchestrated equipment and personnel. The last lab pieces were ready for transit back to the larger upstate Avengers facility. Global crisis prevented, time to part ways until the next one. Her safe harbor deal stood, Fury had reminded her. Did Ross expect a thank-you? He forgot she was just as comfortable at home as on the run; she didn’t need the States’ validation to do her work. 

She watched Simmons pack her desk: scattered paperwork and binders, drugstore aspirin, a single framed photo.

"You saved the world. So now what?" she'd asked Simmons earlier, a teapot between them. It was practically an Avengers and SHIELD tagline.

A shrug, a smile too old and sad. "Get back to work. There's a personal project."

She knew about those. Everybody had one; what brought them into this life, or what kept them in the game. Natasha squinted at the dawn sun, devoid of heat and color as more snow threatened. The whole emergency, more than three hundred dead and the city reconciling with prolonged quarantine, stemmed from a diseased rodent in a meat processing plant. It didn’t surprise her how little it took to spread fear across a community. How easy it was to turn neighbor against neighbor in suspicion. There would be investigations, protests, more lawsuits; all part of the public square’s healing process. She was no stranger to the arbitrary universe, but she knew it hit Steve worse. 

She leaned on her crutches and swung forward, makeup concealing the bruising and burns, and not a hair misplaced. They all had their masks.

“Thought you’d be happier to be alive.”

Steve brightened, the strain lifting. He looked the same. A relief. Or maybe not. He’d been worn thin at the edges for months now. She used to believe trauma slid off him, another benefit of the serum. Impervious to the world’s bullshit would’ve been a nice perk. She read his emotion in the beat he waited, the tight swallow to clear his throat. Tearful reunions weren't their style. 

“Did you sneak up on me with crutches?”

“Guess you finally need that hearing aid.”

He put a hand gentle on her shoulder and Natasha leaned into it, closed her eyes. It was enough. She smiled. Like Simmons said, time to get back to work.

“Heard you boys could use some help finding the bad guys.”

***

Natasha dragged a stool from the former bar, the metallic scrape against hardwood echoing through the emptied open split-level. Liquor and wine bottles were long since consumed or squirreled away and the unobstructed mirrored wall only deepened the sense of abandoned excess space. She settled in front of a new laptop, leg awkwardly propped, and stretched her fingers over the keys. A second laptop waited by her elbow. 

She hesitated. “Personal space?”

Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Tony all stepped back a pace. Hill sipped her coffee behind the bar.

“You’re sure this won’t trace?” Tony fretted, gesturing anxiously to the laptops. “I could set up—”

“I got it, Tony. I’m in a Beijing office right now.”

This was her comfort zone; this was where she excelled. She opened the dark browser, navigating to her usual forum. In the market for a valid DHS employee email list. Her reputation was impeccable. Two hits. A bidding war. If you knew where to ask, the right information was easy to find. It was also expensive and morally questionable. She messaged bitcoin from her private account and downloaded the encryption, scrolled the list, eliminated higher-level titles. Now to craft the hook. Again, easy; she curated a cloud-based personal archive to suit that task. She chewed her lip and skimmed her trove of templates. Password reset, a classic. Copy, paste. A few more clicks and she waited, watching her temporary inbox.

“That's it? What happened?” Steve asked.

“Spray and pray. We only need one person to reset their password.” Natasha checked her watch. “Morning rush hour, prime time.”

“FRIDAY are you getting this?” Tony muttered.

“I will upgrade security protocols accordingly,” a voice floated from the ceiling, startling Bucky.

_Ping_. New email. _Ping. Ping._ Natasha smiled — _got these fuckers_ — and scrolled the account options as they rolled in.

“I’m going back to pen and paper,” Sam declared.

Natasha figured a five-minute window, max, before a tech-savvy employee reported her hook to IT and blocked the access point. She worked quickly, bringing up the DHS intranet and logging in, thanks to the poor sucker in the policy and planning office. Navigate to the Manhattan branch. Find the visitor log requests page, download the submission script history. Find the employee badge access page, download the stored ID number inventory. Her repolished nails ticked across the laptop keys, synthesizing and executing commands. The Widow USB blinked as the gigabytes transferred. 

Then the screen went blank: 401 Unauthorized. She unplugged the USB and deconstructed the laptop, crushing its parts.

“Well, that’s one way to lose a trace,” Tony admitted.

Natasha opened the second laptop. Inserted the USB. Query: date and time of visitor access. She matched the data to what Hill had scrambled to collect from the hospital CCTV feed and parsed the script code.

Steve crossed his arms as he picked up the scent. “Visitor logs?”

Hill shrugged. “DHS regularly contracts to private corporations. Less public visibility for, say, an office admin building staffing medical personnel.”

There were five names. Three requested access from the same employee ID. She queried the following hours. One name returned periodically. 

“I’ve got good news and bad news.” It was clever, really. “Identified a primary target. Name’s John Doe.”

“You can't be serious.”

“DHS internally masked it.” 

She tapped a nail thoughtfully and navigated to the NYPD traffic division’s internal CCTV site. No need for a phishing expedition when you had a reliable mole. She made a mental note to repay Sergei with a Bratva tip; intel was never free, and Hill had looped enough CCTV feeds this week to give even the seediest cop cold feet. 

Query: date and time, two cameras outside the Houston Street subway station. Hill had already tried to extract ID’s from the initial truck drop-off but the footage was partially blocked and unusable. Now Natasha knew the other visitor access times. She leaned in, fast-forwarding the archive frames. There. Early afternoon. She triple-checked the time stamps. Must be. 

She zoomed in, applied resolution refinement. Screenshot. Get the license plate. Screenshot.

“That’s our John Doe.”

They stared at the grainy pixelated photo.

Tony snorted. " _That's_ the evil doctor? George Costanza?" He was a slightly balding man, out of shape, wearing slacks and a polo under a jacket. A respiration mask obscured half his face; they wouldn’t be able to run recognition on it.

Steve leaned in. “Who’s—”

"Forget it, doesn't matter. Do I need to explain every pop culture reference here? Still?"

Natasha opened a new tab and submitted the plate info. Search. She gave a frustrated grunt. “License plate’s registered to an anonymous LLC.” Smart little shit, wasn't he. She opened up a series of new windows from memory. “But the car isn’t invisible.” Tracking a case in America meant highway cams, tunnel cams, EZ-Pass transponder signals, and a plethora of Big Brother transit tech. She worked through each network site. Not so smart after all, if he didn't ditch the car or change the plates. Behind her, Steve paced. Finally a physical threat he could pummel.

“Jersey Turnpike past Hoboken,” Natasha announced, surprised. “I-95 South. No other hits since the Wilmington exit two days ago.” Staying in-country after a high-profile target could be a strategy, but only if you covered your tracks. Why not fly out of Newark, La Guardia? 

Hill allowed a smile. "Good work, Romanoff."

“Could’ve changed vehicles in Wilmington.”

“Why?” Sam opened a map on his phone. “He doesn’t know anybody’s on to him.”

“Keep tracking him.” Steve faced them and Natasha saw what was coming next. “I’m suiting up.”

Sam groaned. Bucky was blank, fixed over Natasha’s shoulder on the traffic results, avoiding an easy read.

“Suit up and what?” Tony raised a finger along with his voice, brewing a confrontation. “This is exactly what I mean about the Accords. We don't know this guy's affiliation, if it's even HYDRA. He could be a private US citizen!”

“In illegal possession of super-soldier serum after kidnapping and medically terrorizing a war hero.” Hill crossed her arms.

“Okay, fair point. But, you’re a vigilante with an outstanding arrest warrant,” Tony pointed at Steve. “And you’re not taking my quinjet again.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Fine. I’ll drive.”

Sam massaged his forehead. “Steve, this is stupid dangerous.”

“Have you met him?”

“No one else needs to get involved. But I’m pursuing this.” Steve confronted the room, shoulders squared and set with a decision.

“Let’s review our team status, of the members who are available and not under house arrest or retired or on a distant planet.” Tony ticked them off on one hand. “Romanoff, crutches. Fury, confidential mission at a confidential location, so who the fuck knows. I already said I’m out. Actually, I haven't. Okay, I'm out. Wilson has a perfectly valid safe harbor agreement. So we’re left with Agent Hill, Tin Man, and ex-Captain America who needs at least two follow-up MRIs for sporadic aural migraines. Other than Agent Hill, this team sucks,” he concluded.

"Mandatory meeting with the UN tomorrow, I'm out," Hill apologized.

“Look—”

“I’m being realistic.”

“When have our plans ever been realistic?”

“Just like old times,” Bucky muttered under his breath, catching Natasha's eye.

“Okay, I see what you mean, but—”

“I’m going,” Steve repeated. Bucky left his own decision unspoken but stepped closer to Steve.

Natasha tucked away her USB, closed her laptop and collected a tidy pile from the broken bits of the smashed one. “You realize once you leave the Tower, you’ll be on your own? _Persona non grata_?”

“It’s better this way, for everyone.”

Everyone except you and Barnes, Natasha wanted to say, but held her tongue. Changing Steve’s mind was like trying to crack a boulder; you had to know where to place the chisel and how to hit. Fury briefed her on what happened to Steve. When missions got personal it was about picking what battles to fight, and this wasn’t one. 

Sam sighed. "The guy could be anywhere. Hell, all we got is a car with matching plates was there two days ago. It's a needle in a haystack."

"He could've fled the country, used a bus or train, taken the exit a half-mile earlier or the one a mile after," Bucky said, breaking into the conversation. "He didn't. That's our starting search perimeter. We set up surveillance. He'll need food and gas."

It was the same logic Natasha was trained to use. Track the target. She eased onto her crutches and slid off the stool.

"Okay, and then what?"

"Then we get answers," Steve said.

Tony shook his head. "You're not convincing me we're not also getting a dead body."

"Nobody's killing anyone."

"You believe that, after what this guy did to you?" Natasha asked. She didn’t miss the way Steve’s expression clouded. Red flag. Her eyes flicked to Barnes; did he see it too? He denied her an easy read again.

Sam’s mouth pursed in concern. "I should be going with."

"Sam. People need you here, I can't let you burn your safe harbor."

"That’s not your decision to make." A tense pause. Sam grimaced and he kicked the floor, once, angrily. "Fuck, but you're right. I want in on comms, period."

“Done.”

“Not trying to be a martyr,” Barnes murmured low enough for Steve to catch, as Natasha read his lips. Whatever that was about, it earned him an aggrieved look from Steve. 

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you even have a tac suit? Or just your pajamas?”

Silence.

He clapped his hands together. “Here, follow me. You too, Tin Man.”

“So who's gonna tell Fury?”

***

Bucky followed Stark and Steve into the elevator, this time to the basement storage units. Nothing about John Doe sparked a memory of _Her Program_. If it was HYDRA though… Steve wasn’t one hundred percent. They hadn’t gone their usual route of pre-mission bickering, with the tacit understanding that Steve needed backup. The migraine episodes showed when he stilled and blinked, trying to focus. Of course it went deeper than the migraines. Romanoff and Wilson could see it. _He’s healing_ , Cho said. _Give it time_. As if they ever had time to spare, as if Steve had ever been patient.

Shuttered units spanned the basement sublevel in rows like deserted shopfronts. Their footsteps echoed down the gloomy corridor.

“What the hell do you keep down here?”

“Oh, all my skeletons. Not enough closet space. Old prototypes, beta builds, mostly crap but it comes in handy for a spare part. Haven’t figured where to move it all yet.” Stark fiddled with a biometric keypad to a particular unit and then lifted the gate. Fluorescent lights clicked on, illuminating several dressed mannequins and a discarded pile of textured material. “I know you said you're hanging up Cap for good, but I designed these a couple years ago, you know, as a side project.” Stark rubbed the back of his neck.

Steve stepped forward and touched the star insignia on the first mannequin, skating over the reinforced red and blue suit.

“Tony, these are beautiful.”

He moved to the other mannequins, and Bucky noticed they were variations on the stealth design Steve had worn when he was chasing the Soldier. He stopped at the last two, bare from any identifying symbols.

“Didn’t get to finish those. Reinforced textile, mixed in kevlar. Better than both your pajamas.”

Bucky caught his intention. He thought of Howard, Maria, those last seconds in their car. It wasn’t right. “Thank you, but I, uh, don’t think these fit me.”

“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Barnes,” Stark rebutted. “I have a dedicated team of robots upstairs. Gimme an hour to nip a sleeve, tuck a couple seams, voilà. And if I remember…” He went to an abandoned workbench in the corner and dragged it from the wall, fishing around as various scrap metal pieces clanged. Stark found what he'd been searching for and offered it to Steve. “Here. You’ll need this.”

It wasn’t the old shield. It was an anonymous dark grey, unpolished and rough at the edges. Steve's eyes shone.

Stark held it out, insistent. “Oh for fuck’s sakes. It’s a shitty beta model, not vibranium. I was testing other alloys. You don’t get Dad’s back.”

Steve shook his head quickly. “And I wouldn’t ask for it.” He hefted the plain shield to gauge the balance and counterpoints.

Bucky studied a tac suit and tried to imagine it as anything other than a Halloween costume among the ghouls. The sweet scent of gasoline, tissue softly collapsing under his fist over and over and over. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I appreciate the offer.”

“Buck—”

Stark adjusted the fabric on the first model, smoothing the star. “Dad believed in SHIELD — the true mission of SHIELD, like it was supposed to be. The good guys fight the bad guys with the best weapons, the best technology.” He stopped and faced Bucky. “That’s quaint. It’s not reality, obviously. You know that. In the defense industry pretty soon you realize the world’s just one big cynical gray area. So you do what you can, try to put the right tools in the most capable hands. I think you’re damn capable. Am I wrong?”

_It’s how you use the weapon_. Making amends meant putting himself into the fray. He needed a suit. So take the fucking suit. He pushed aside the replays of the past, back to where they belonged, and the familiar shades sank through the floor. Bucky lifted his chin. “No.”

“Good. I’m rolling the dice." He regarded Steve. "Taking a chance on the wildcard.”

Steve nodded. “You won’t regret it.”

“Are you kidding? I already regret it, you look like you’re gonna cry, oh my god. Grab the suits and let’s get out of here, my allergies are acting up.”

***

Bucky confronted the mirror in Steve’s apartment. The suit had been modestly butchered by taking off a sleeve and the cowl. After the alterations, it fit. The material was more durable than his old tac suit, with fewer vulnerable danger zones. It was good, he admitted. And strange, definitely strange. This was meant for Steve, Captain America. He rubbed the place where the star would’ve been. But if Tony Stark, of all people, thought he should own it, the least he could do was work on convincing himself of the same. Shed the Winter Soldier and the White Wolf. Move forward into something new, something he created on his own and not what others named for him. He rolled his shoulder to rotate his arm, testing the freedom of the hemming. _His_ arm— When had that happened? He flexed his vibranium fingers curiously. 

Steve leaned against the doorframe. “Looks good on you.”

“Quit staring at my ass, Rogers,” Bucky replied, not missing a beat. He dodged as Steve cuffed him on the shoulder. “Can’t believe you run around in public with this on.” 

“You would’ve loved the first one from Coulson.”

He’d done a little research, it was true. A grin flickered. One thing still caught in his mind. “What was all that, earlier? You giving up Captain America?” He’d be lying if there wasn’t a selfish hope in the question.

Steve scuffed his boot into the carpet. “Yeah, I guess I am.” He searched Bucky's face for a clue before moving to the inevitable qualifier. “Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think I’ll ever step away from all this.” 

He swept his arm in a gesture Bucky assumed encompassed all of humanity’s shittiness: war, death, carnage, violence. Some people left the Army and had a family with kids and retired to a beach house in Florida. Some people never left. That was Steve. Boiled down, it was simple. Bucky had made his bitter peace with it, and here he was, and that was that.

“Steve, you been fighting since you could walk,” he said wearily, as if they’d discussed it twenty times and not twice. “Was there for your first fight, figure I’ll hang around till your last.”

“How’d I ever deserve a fella like you, huh?” Steve murmured, worried lines in his brow turning fond in the mirror.

Bucky gave a half-smile and cupped his flesh hand soft and brief against Steve’s cheek, smooth from a shave. “Being stupid, I guess.”

***

Bucky watches the clerk shuffle his paperwork, the wall clock obnoxiously loud in the cramped Army office. The light reflects off the clerk’s bald head and he brushes away a pestering fly. A poster thumbtacked behind him declares I WANT YOU FOR U.S. ARMY. He notices the beaten typewriter is missing the letter “p”. 

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No, sir.” Bucky realizes he never called on Bettie after their last date. They’d seen _Stagecoach_ even though he’d snuck in five times already with Steve because the driver’s name was Buck, but the Apaches scared her. Should’ve seen _Wizard of Oz_. He leans back in the office chair, balancing on a leg. The next day, he’d gotten his draft notice.

“Are you sexually attracted to women?”

The chair thunks down. “What?”

The clerk peers at him over his bifocals, below Uncle Sam’s accusing finger. “Do you like women, son?”

“Well, of course,” Bucky says because sure, he likes women just fine, and what the hell kind of question is that, anyway? He imagines the Army receiving an anonymous note, a tell-all screed by a jealous gal saying he’s a queer and that’s why he hasn’t settled his life, how every time he jacks off he starts thinking of Dottie or Bettie or Helen but then it always circles around, like water down a drain, to the Coney Island lifeguard or the fella from his football club or, jesus christ, Steve, and that’s the worst one, and he thinks about O’Connell’s playing card he keeps stuffed in the box in the back of his closet. God, he better throw that away before he ships out. Or maybe he won’t and when he gets shipped back in a coffin they can bury him proper with his sad little shoebox of belongings and a part of Steve.

***

Steve threw his duffel into the Honda Civic and assessed the menagerie of advanced weaponry in the trunk. Surely not the purpose Happy had intended, but it was the only nondescript vehicle left in the Tower garage. He listened to Bucky elaborate to Sam on the tragedies of modern motor mechanics and slam the front hood shut, concluding his inspection for any bugs or booby-traps. Dots spiralled in his vision and he closed his eyes in a long blink while they receded. Steve glanced down at the trunk again and put the new shield in for good measure, on top of what looked suspiciously like a grenade launcher. Natasha cocked an eyebrow at it and Steve shrugged. 

He paused to sketch her quick in his mind: the way she held herself with casual confidence, even on crutches, red hair meticulously curled; the controlled smoothness of her face that slipped when she laughed. He must've showed too much because she stopped him with an outstretched hand and matter-of-factly fixed the collar on his button-up shirt to cover the tac suit underneath.

"Goodbyes are for little kids, Rogers. I'll see you around."

Steve took the cue, missing her already. "Be seeing you, Nat."

Hill emerged from her SHIELD van and tossed Steve a GPS unit. "Wilmington rendezvous coordinates from Fury. Don’t ask, I don’t know. And like I told Barnes, Ross is gonna be on every channel. Watch your back."

"Yes, ma'am."

“And don’t get pulled over,” Sam advised.

Steve adjusted his glasses and Yankees cap reflexively. “Gonna miss your good advice.” He passed Sam a thick manila envelope filled with sketchbooks, Bucky's journals, and their keepsake photos. For temporary safekeeping, he told himself.

"Promise you won't sell these on eBay."

Sam grinned and tucked it under an arm. “Enough forgeries out there anyway. So this is it, huh?” He studied Steve, found the answer and nodded. He wore his faded Air National Guard sweatshirt. In simpler times a morning run would've been on the schedule. “Look, about earlier… I’m not saying never.”

Steve thought of the old shield, gathering dust. Maybe its work was done; people needed a new guard, one that wasn’t stuck to the past. “I understand,” he said, and this time he really did.

“Then I got more good advice if you’ll take it. Promise me you’ll use the number I gave you, once a week if you can. More if you need to. Ask for help. Keep working on how to carry all that stuff up there,” he tapped his temple, “and in here,” he tapped over his heart. “Ain’t easy in the field. Same to you, Barnes,” he called to the passenger seat, getting a middle-finger reply out the window. “Oh, definitely same to you.”

Steve smiled as his throat tightened. Sam made it sound casual, easy, and he wanted to believe there was a gentler way to manage the tempest raging inside him. Ask for help? Where would he begin?

“You sure you’re okay to do this?” Sam asked, lower.

Regardless of whether he was okay, the mission was happening now. They needed to find John Doe and his serum sample. The rest was irrelevant. He kept up the charade, however tenuous it was becoming, and held out his hand. “I’ll be alright. Be seeing you, Sam.”

Sam squeezed it firm and warm. “See you around then, Rogers.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some disturbing violence.

The drive was uneventful. Steve followed directions and kept below the speed limit. Bucky reclined the passenger seat, wore Steve’s old sunglasses but didn’t nap, and flung a curse at the turnpike exit to Wheaton. They didn’t talk about John Doe, or HYDRA, or what they might be driving into. The radio switched from NPR to static to a hockey broadcast. How many times had they dreamed of a road trip, hitching rides headed west? They’d traveled the world plenty since then but the freedom remained elusive. 

They stopped to get gas outside Wilmington, the last location from Natasha’s tracking. Steve tagged the Stop 'N Go door with a micro-camera smaller than his thumbnail. Bucky crossed it off the list: one down, twelve to go.

The sun crept lower to the horizon, the temperature dipped.

Takeout from a burger joint left a greasy ball of anxiety in Steve's stomach and a fried onion odor in the car. He jogged his leg and waited for a red light to change green. Bucky blew bubbles into his soda. Scope the other license plates and drivers, don’t make eye contact. Get to the next station, tag it. 

It grew dark. Their list was a series of crossed-out locations. Bucky clicked his pen, opened a bag of what appeared to be jalapeno potato chips from the last Acme, and ate them with controlled nonchalance. Steve scrolled the cam live streams on his phone. An alert meant a license plate matched. Nothing. Maybe they should go back, readjust the angles. He checked them ten minutes later. Nothing.

They stole restless sleep in the car, in the Walmart parking lot, and traded turns on watch. It flurried and their breath puffed small clouds above the wool blankets. Steve dreamed of France, then the Alps. The sunrise was cold and dim.

Bucky bought a new paperback and a deck of cards. Steve left unfinished no less than six sketches on napkins and receipts. The tension in his neck and between his shoulders brought kaleidoscoping dots across his vision and he crumpled the receipts into a tight wad. They played an informal game of where-are-they-now and it led to mostly obits.

***

"Maybe he's not here," Steve said, watching the dryer tumble in circles. He worried at a hole in his old undershirt.

Bucky discreetly rolled a quarter over his vibranium knuckles where he’d taken off his glove, the movements keeping a soft rhythmic clinking. He scrunched his bare feet. The three other people in the laundromat, all sleeping and at least eighty, were unlikely threats. "He's here."

If he wasn't, Steve was going to… Well, he didn't know. March up to New York, or better yet, down to DC and have a word with Ross directly, Raft be damned. He felt like a rubber band stretched too thin.

"So this Indiana Jones fella, he’s a thief but he’s the good guy or something?" Bucky brought him back.

***

Two days later they stopped at a Sunoco to use the wash room and Steve seriously considered risking a motel. He rinsed his face in the rusted clogged sink and a muscle cramp started in his right shoulder from the car seat. Sam was right; this was stupid dangerous. A guy who bore a striking resemblance to Captain America and a guy with a metal arm could only fly under the radar for so long in the same town. Bailing on the mission wasn’t an option; how much more useless could he be? His plans had gone sideways since landing in New York, spinning out of control with comedic absurdity. He grit his teeth. Anger soured in his gut and threatened to spur a migraine episode. Instead, he straightened his jacket to cover the tac suit. 

Steve paid with cash, including Bucky’s request for one Snickers bar and a large black coffee which meant he’d be taking first watch tonight. The clerk rang him up and Steve side-eyed the daily newspaper front pages. They were too busy running follow-up headlines on epidemic recovery to dig into terrorist watch list alerts. For now. 

The mood shifted a split second before the screams from outside and a full second before the cashier lifted his hands in defense, panicked. 

They had recognized Bucky, him, both. 

Steve's heart plummeted. 

“It’s okay—”

The rest of whatever assurance he was going to try to peddle was lost with the crack of gunfire. Window glass collapsed in crashing sheets, and shards fanned across the floor. Steve ducked on reflex, then spun as the shots went further back in the store. He glanced through the shot-out windows: Bucky crouched behind the Civic with his Sig steadied on the roof, tracking. Another bullet cracked the display fridge and a liter of soda exploded. 

Steve flinched as a closer gunshot rang out, this time from the cashier’s counter. The clerk had grabbed his own firearm and was trying to find a clear sight on Bucky. 

“Stay down, police!” Steve shouted, throwing out the only lie that sounded reasonable. Fucking idiot.

A brief silence, then shuffling sounds in the far aisle, moving towards the side exit door. Steve inched forward to peer around the corner and froze.

His phone beeped.

John Doe paused, his own gun held low. A thought struck Steve: he was just a normal guy. Khakis, a wrinkled polo shirt, out of shape in the way that happened to most men over forty, wire-rimmed glasses. Then he was gone. Emergency exit. Steve stumbled back as wildly inaccurate parting shots hit a candy display, then went to the floor to avoid the clerk’s panicked rejoinder. 

“Stop fucking shooting!” Steve yelled in frustration.

Catch him, catch him, he’s getting away, go. Adrenaline surged. 

Steve ran out the front, glass crunching underfoot. An abandoned purse spilled its contents across the parking lot, next to a dropped hot dog. Bystanders lay prone on the ground under cars and behind pumps. Another crack from Bucky, then a pained yelp— Doe was hit. He limped behind a diesel station, one thigh bloodied. Bucky cursed and ripped open the trunk. Steve caught the plain gray shield mid-stride. 

He circled around the pump and four more shots glanced off the shield. In his peripheral, Bucky held up his free hand— Five bullets left, assuming just the single clip and gun. Steve nodded.

“We know who you are,” he shouted. Not like the guy was going to call his bluff. "You can do this peacefully or the hard way."

Doe was silent. Steve could see him trying to get an angle between two ad boards for twenty cents off fuel. A civilian wept quietly.

Sirens grew in the distance and Steve cursed. They absolutely could not stay here. “Buck?”

“Got it.” Bucky leapt into the Civic, threw it in reverse and floored it towards the diesel refuel. Doe staggered and then flung himself aside, flushed from his position. The Civic scraped the pump curb where he’d been and crashed into a pole. The car windows shattered as the airbag deployed, and Langham unloaded into the Civic, shots ricocheting off Bucky’s arm in sparks that threatened to ignite the whole place.

Enough of this fucking circus. Steve came around the pump in a fury and whipped the shield. It caught Doe sideways in the lower arm with a snap and a scream. The handgun dropped. Bucky grabbed the gun as Steve retrieved the shield, Doe scrabbling on the pavement. The sirens were getting closer, they didn’t have time left. Steve lifted Doe by his coat collar and smacked his head against the gas pump, taking his weight as he went limp. Bucky was already throwing weapons from the Civic’s trunk into a nearby Ford Explorer with keys still in the ignition. Steve shoved Doe into the car and started the engine, shield propped in the passenger seat.

“Guess Happy isn’t getting his car back. Left, make a left.”

“I got it, I know—”

“Don’t fucking speed.” Bucky leaned forward from the rear. “See those high-rise condos—”

“Yeah, I got it. You’re hurt.”

Bucky made a face and checked the bleeding on his other arm. It trickled from his hoodie sleeve. “Asshole grazed me.”

“Is he—?”

“Out cold.”

“Put the tac suit on.”

“I’m not getting naked right now, are you serious?”

“Fine, we get clear of the scene, put it on. What the hell happened?”

Bucky returned to John Doe and patted him down. “Watching you pay then he steps out of the men’s room. Did a double-take, pulled his gun. Pulled mine faster. Fuck, that surveillance alert was slow.”

Bucky put in the comms earpiece he had stashed in his backpack and passed another up to Steve. Doe slumped against the door as Steve turned a sharp corner. Bucky rattled off his findings: "No cyanide, no other weapons, not even a backup clip. Wedding band. House key, car key. Mints, pocket lint. Three credit cards, driver’s license, health insurance, twenty-three dollars."

"What's the license say?"

"John Langham. Wilmington address. Could be fake."

_Bluejay, Eagle, this is Nest._

Steve startled and the car swerved. God, keep it together, Rogers. He put on the blinker and pulled into the condo parking lot.

“Bluejay, copy,” Bucky said and tossed the wallet to Steve’s lap.

“Eagle, copy.” Steve navigated a parking aisle. “We’re on the run.”

_Yeah, tell me something we don’t know._ Sam.

_You’re all over the Wilmington scanner._ Natasha.

The door alarm dinged as Bucky jumped out and smashed the driver's window on the nearest old-model car. “Got it under control,” he said, uncovering a host of wires beneath the steering column.

“We have John Doe with a Delaware license for John Langham.” A morbid, elated thrill ran through Steve. Got him. Finally, a person to hold accountable and suffer the consequences. He was almost giddy with relief. A target to unload the tension. He scanned the lot for any witnesses while Bucky sparked two wires together. It was mid-morning on a weekday, most folks already at work.

_Eagle, repeat._

“John Doe is a John Langham. Ran into each other at a gas station.”

_Status?_

“Alive and unconscious.”

_Roger. You got the rendezvous site?_

"Copy."

_Don’t do anything stupid._

The heady rush of a successful mission was quickly curdling. _Then what? Then we get answers._ Roots of hatred, buried for days, stirred to life.

***

Steve eased the old sedan onto the gravel shoulder and parked. The GPS route to Fury's coordinates tried to recalculate, perched above an empty soda can in the cup holder. His chest was tight but his hands sure as he pulled the keys from the ignition and the comms unit from his ear. He'd get hell for it later. He didn't want them to hear this part. Rail Trail Next Spring, proclaimed a sign in front of the deserted dead-end construction site, and icicles hung from the maw of a bulldozer. A squirrel darted through the trees.

Steve turned to the back seat. Bucky was wedged in the corner opposite Langham, a dark spot on the tac suit where his bicep still bled. The Sig rested at attention across his lap. A handful of Cheerios were embedded between the blood-stained seat cushions and mats. Half of Langham’s face was a colorful swollen bruise, one eye open and staring at Bucky’s vibranium arm. He was propped up by duct tape around his neck and the headrest, his own fractured right arm wrapped in the remains of Bucky’s hoodie. More tape blocked the side windows. Bucky's eyes slid from the GPS to Steve. He took out his comms, then reached over and removed the gag from Langham’s mouth.

“I can't help you,” Langham rasped immediately.

Steve hated how he chilled at the voice. Heart rate escalating. He swallowed. “What’s your name.”

“Dr. John Langham.”

“That your real name?”

Langham scoffed as best he could. “Of course it is!”

“Why were you at the gas station.”

“I live here, I needed gas?”

“With a gun.”

“Concealed carry. If you know who I work for, you know why.” He squinted, glasses lost in the scuffle.

“HYDRA.”

Langham licked his lips but stayed silent. Steve fucking knew it. Eventually it all went back to HYDRA, always, like rivers to the ocean. What the hell was the point of months he'd spent leveling bases in Europe? The weeds regrew no matter how careful the gardener. 

Bucky tilted his head towards Steve. “You took serum samples.”

Langham's eyes flicked between them. “I can’t.”

“I’m not giving you an option.” Bucky settled his left hand on Langham’s thigh, where more duct tape bandaged the bullet wound. “You can cooperate now, with everything intact, or later with a lot less.”

“Wait, wait, okay, shit. Fuck!” Langham’s neck bobbed at the inference. He’d been remarkably resilient to the pain — so far. Cold sweat soaked his shirt. “I consult on unique patients, okay? The serum was sent for testing.”

“To DHS?” Steve asked.

“Visceragen Group, covert epidemiology.” Langham nodded to his wallet. "Under the Aetna card."

The hell? Steve fished out the insurance card and felt the false front. He peeled it away, revealing a single symbol.

***

The image hit Bucky like a scream in his ear. Immediate dread. His stomach dropped down and up in a dizzying yo-yo and he fought the urge to retch. Focus on the weave of the car seat fabric, the cereal crumbs. Vertigo struck and it all tilted sideways. Bucky holstered the Sig and carefully moved his left hand from Langham to the seat. He was in control. He was here, with Steve.

Then Steve’s voice, urgent, in a long tunnel: “Buck, what is it?"

Bucky sucked air past his teeth, nerves yammering. A threat was going to happen RIGHT NOW, he must ATTACK THE ENEMY. He pressed his hands harder on the seat, the flesh one leaving a damp imprint. Communicate. Status report. 

“The logo, I know it.”

He was pulled under the wave.

The asset is in a small concrete room. Routine maintenance? No. This is different. Needles. It’s very cold. A lab coat, the insignia close enough to touch. Orders: Do not move. The asset does not move. 

A fever, hot, too hot. The lab coat returns, the woman with dark hair. HER PROGRAM. Orders: Turn to the side. Do not move. Mouthguard. A needle into the lower spine, a shooting pain in the legs. Get a second sample, the woman says. It happens again. The asset does not move.

That’s all we need, shut it down. So cold it burns and blisters, it takes the Soldier’s breath. A different time: Repeat. Orders: Do not move. Green paint on the walls. Or was it the same time. The chronology is lost, the asset knows no time. Repeat. Repeat. 

The memory fled like a dream after waking. _Please don’t, please don’t, please_ —

“солдат, отчет!”

Bucky snapped to the present at Steve’s sharp Russian. Soldier, report— A phrase for emergency use only. Steve was scared. _Talk to me. Bucky, please, say something._ He panted, mouth dry, palms firmly pinned. He was in control. 

“десять треугольников,” he said. Wrong tongue. “The ten triangles.”

A warm touch trembled on his forearm. Steve crouched next to him, the car doors open. When had he moved? Bucky kept his eyes steady on his hands, as if they might commit acts on their own. Two knives at his waist, another in his boot, Sig in the holster and Glock at the small of his back. All these could be readily utilized. He focused on the kimoyo beads. Find your breath, Barnes, c’mon.

Inhale, exhale; in, out.

“Christ, quit hovering, Steve.” His teeth chattered but the sense of impending doom ebbed. 

Steve's face twisted, and he wiped his mouth. He got up from where he'd knelt in the gravel beside Bucky and strode to the opposite door, to Langham, who pressed back into the seat cushion. “Nazis, HYDRA, you’re all the same, torturing—”

“Nazi?” Langham had the gall to be offended. “I’m a doctor! Governments refer mutant cases, any special cases; it’s valuable data for a cure.”

“A cure.” Steve spat incredulously.

“That’s—”

“Who’s the woman, the one who led the older projects?” Bucky interrupted. Steve glanced at him with a concerned frown. 

Langham gaped. “The executive? Above my level. I don’t know, I swear." He tried to shake his head. A rivulet of sweat traveled into his collar. "I don’t want to know; I have a family.”

Steve grabbed Langham’s chin to catch his good eye. “You swore an oath to do no harm. And instead you, what, kidnap patients and let them suffer? How many?”

“The _disease_ causes the suffering,” Langham countered with surprising verve. “Understanding the contagion saves lives!”

Steve paled in fury at the defense. “You think HYDRA gives a shit about saving lives? You don’t think those patients have families too? They aren’t human to you?”

“Of course they are," Langham persisted. "Weigh the sacrifice of one for the good of all. You've done the same yourself, Captain.”

“Different century, same shit. Amazing,” Bucky muttered.

“How many people did you let die,” Steve asked, quietly thunderous.

Langham winced. “That's not—”

“Ballpark.”

“We always try to salvage them.”

“A number.”

Steve loomed over Langham and set his hand on the bullet wound. Things were about to take a turn for the worse. The calm clarity of incoming violence descended on Bucky, like silence after static. This was personal for him too, but not like it was for Steve. 

“Forty-three!” Langham screamed as Steve pressed down, blood bursting around the duct tape. 

“You have any idea what that virus did to me?” Steve yelled. _Sputnik_ , Bucky thought.

“It was— could’ve been, worth it—”

Bucky saw it in slow motion then, the loss of restraint born from rage, the slipping mask. It wasn’t Steve’s fault the world was indifferent. They were only small boats in that storming ocean. Sometimes a wave was too big to withstand, and the boat splintered apart.

Steve reared back to punch Langham and it would snap his neck, instantly, the way he was bound to the seat, and Steve’s fist would cave his skull halfway into his brain matter. 

This was what the house of cards had built to since Wakanda. A single moment, a before-and-after tipping point. Bucky balanced on the decision. If he didn’t act here, now, all might be lost. He thought of Steve at twenty-one, drunk for his birthday; fifteen, embarrassed at the beach; eight, beat up on the sidewalk. 

Bucky flung across the seat, reaching, and caught Steve’s fist in his left. 

The impact shuddered through his shoulder and spine, the old metal fastening joints creaking in his bones, radiating pain as the momentum and energy dispersed. Langham sobbed in shuddering gasps, fist an inch from his swollen eye socket. Steve’s heart was like a train engine and he held tight.

“Steve, stop. You’ll kill him.”

Steve looked at Bucky and his expression was blank, the face of a stranger. “I’ve killed men before.”

“Please, my little girl, she’s two," Langham pled. His polo shirt rucked up and exposed pale belly.

“No, you haven't. Not like this.” Bucky stood his ground. If they were going to fight, then he would fight. He hadn't let Steve sink off the helicarrier, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let him sink now. 

Steve scowled and tried to wrest his arm away. So goddamn stubborn.

Time to lay the cards on the table. 

“You want him dead, I’ll do it.” 

Bucky braced his knee on the seat and pulled out the Sig with his right, put it flush against Langham’s ear with the steadiness of muscle memory. Langham went soundless in fear. Another tipping point, this one not so new. Steve believed Bucky’s _before_ meant before HYDRA. It was further: The first head at the end of a bullet’s journey. Like a melon. The after was everything else. Balance, balance. 

“I’ll do it. I said I would." He could survive it. "But don’t you follow me there, Steve.”

And wasn’t that the crux of it? Fight monsters long enough and you began to turn into them. Bad to worse. HYDRA could twist and deform the best intentions without ever using The Chair. It bred an insidious corruption in the soul.

The terrifying blankness retreated as Steve deflated, eyes going soft.

“Buck, no,” he whispered. 

His fist relaxed and Bucky let him free, cautious. Steve leaned back from them, stricken, and wiped a hand across his forehand, grabbing at his hair. A crow cawed over Langham’s weeping. It smelled of urine.

Bucky exhaled the tension and holstered his gun. Breaking up a fight meant putting yourself on the line too. 

"It’s okay," he breathed, weak with relief, offering what little comfort he could in the crammed and soiled car. He loved him; this Bucky knew like his own remaining bones.

Their reprieve was short-lived.

Tires skidded fast on loose asphalt coming down the narrow unpaved road. What the—? Bucky straightened in realization. Shit, of course. Stupid, stupid. Tracking beacon. HYDRA always tagged their assets.

“Oh thank god,” Langham wheezed, snot dripping.

“They’re not coming to rescue you, fucking idiot,” Bucky seethed and grabbed a knife. 

“No no no, wait—!”

Bucky cut away the duct tape bonds, put a strip back over Langham’s mouth, and shoved him out the door past Steve. He shook Steve once, hard, from a wrecked reverie; there wasn't time for this now. 

"I need you with me." 

He waited for Steve to focus, meet his eyes. The cars grew closer. Steve blinked, swallowed hard and squared his jaw with practiced physical effort. Captain. 

"Let's go." Steve unfolded, moving into action, and Bucky followed.

He scooted from the car and hauled Langham by his jacket, screams muted, into a drainage ditch. Maybe he’d make it alive after all. Steve grabbed his shield from the passenger seat and Bucky flung open the trunk as three Humvees sped around the turn. A volley of machine gun fire bounced off the shield and punched holes through the ancient sedan. Bucky fell back, already loading the grenade launcher. The asset recovery teams were rapid-response but low on expertise; this wasn’t DC or New York, and they’d caught HYDRA by surprise. 

Steve threw the shield and knocked out three of the four agents coming from the first vehicle. It spun back off the Humvee in time to block incoming fire, and Bucky flew a grenade past Steve’s ear, detonating below the vacant Humvee with an explosion that jumped the tires. Surprise, assholes. A side panel blew off and whacked an agent into the ground. The thick smoke was a good screen. Steve sprinted to take on the second team, the shield crunching bone under tactical suits. Bucky took the opposite side and scrambled low to keep cover. An agent leapt out and fired, a bullet catching him in the side before he could dodge. Shit. Wait, kevlar, right. Bucky flung him back inside the Humvee, smacking a dent into the opposite door. He grabbed the semi-automatic off the limp body and returned fire from the back of the vehicle as the third team opted for a more cautious approach.

Larger calibers began to come from the HYDRA team, smart adjustment, and Bucky rolled as the Humvee tore apart. Steve flung the shield off a tree trunk, the angle knocking an agent’s helmet and dropping him like a sack. Bucky ripped away a reinforced door and swung it into another agent with a dull thud. The shield absorbed impact from one of the large-caliber rounds but it wasn’t vibranium; it dented ever so slightly. Steve pushed towards the source and Bucky gave him cover fire because these tac suits were good but they weren’t invincible. The agent retreated, then tripped on a tree root — what a fucking amateur — and Steve grabbed his rifle, bending it into a U-shape. He knocked him out with the butt end. Real cute, but Steve hadn’t watched his six. A shout, then silence. Bucky wrenched a handgun from another unconscious body behind Steve. Typical Rogers.

"We still have those coordinates?" Steve called. Groaning agents and car parts littered the road.

Reinforcements would be coming, from both sides, and now they didn't have a vehicle. Bucky grimaced and retrieved the GPS unit from the battered sedan husk, his frown deepening as he charted the fastest route.

"Yeah, hope you're ready for a swim." 

He joined Steve at the edge of the drainage ditch, where Langham moaned in the mud.

“What about him,” Bucky asked. 

Steve’s expression tightened. “Leave him. He’ll get what he deserves.”

***

The river was frigid despite the thick tactical suits. Drizzling fog rolled in off the ocean and the foul water slapped his body. Steve sliced the current with numb strokes, Bucky keeping pace behind him, and recalled the dark Arctic ice. He welcomed cold into his fingers and toes, as if the chill could soothe the ugliness, what he'd seen in himself. How far had he fallen? If he’d killed Langham, would it have been so bad? Would it have sat on his conscience? In wartime they played hard and fast with judge, jury and executioner. _Not like this_. Maybe he hadn’t lost control. Maybe he planned all along to not pull that punch; Natasha had warned him. Even his shame was cold. He’d put Bucky in the one position he vowed to protect him from and almost lived up to Tony’s worst expectations. It was inexcusable. It couldn’t happen again.

Steve turned his face to the water and imagined bits and pieces of his body breaking off like chunks of ice, until there was nothing left but a stone sinking to the muddy bottom.

The inlet carried them past a row of manicured suburban waterfront homes, their docks abandoned for the winter. It was the kind of neighborhood where people set out their recycling and trash on different weekdays. A man wearing a blue bathrobe and knit hat stood at a dock edge, arms crossed, watching them. Steve stumbled up the muddy, rocky bank on half-frozen legs and recognized the man from the Tower landing pad: SHIELD Director MacKenzie.

"Director?”

"Ya'll better not say one damn word," he whispered furiously. "Get in the house, now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The dead remain dead, the maimed are forever maimed, and there is no way to deny one's responsibility or culpability, for those mistakes are written, forever and as if in fire, in others' flesh._  
>  — Peter Marin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for brief graphic violence and mentions of torture.

Mack corralled them up the lawn, well-sheltered by pines and shrubbery, into a garage cluttered with gardening appliances.

“This a safehouse?” Bucky asked, sizing up a mower, his words garbled. His body was heavy and slow under a sheen of ice water. A gentle freezing. He wiped away frozen strands of hair and didn’t feel his face. 

Mack glared, unlocked the garage door, and let them inside. The house was clearly lived in: circular ads on the kitchen table, dirty plates on the counter, a pair of socks by the couch. The heat was on, and it sent burning tingles into Bucky’s skin. Mack peered out a window above the sink before pulling down the blinds and turning to them.

“What in the fuck was that? You have any idea what's been going over the scanner? No comms? Where the hell is Langham?”

Steve bowed his head and tiny icicles thawed from his hair and lashes. “It's my fault. I saw him and I—”

“There's a HYDRA splinter cell.” Bucky cut him off, pressing his lips together as he shivered. No need to go into details. He scoped the room and noticed personal photos on the mantle next to a well-worn Bible. The place was absent obvious surveillance, other than God, but maybe there was AI in the ceiling here too. 

Mack rested his knuckles on the kitchen table as brown river water puddled on the linoleum. “Is my team gonna find him alive?”

“Yes,” Steve said.

“Okay.” He massaged his brow. “Okay. I'm going to make this clear, once: You two are not above the law. There have got to be consequences to this kind of shit.”

Steve's jaw clenched. “It’s on me.”

Always a martyr. Bucky’s pulse quickened and he put a hand on his Sig; nobody was taking Steve to the Raft. “Fuck that.”

“Now hold on,” Mack interrupted, unfazed. “Everyone out there has your last location. I believe in the law but I also believe folks would sooner shoot you than court martial.” He handed them two dish towels to dry off. One cheerily wished Bucky a Very Merry Christmas in cross-stitch. “So what’s this splinter cell.”

Bucky frowned and reassessed the man. The new director was young, he guessed early thirties, likely tough in hand-to-hand combat, and a stranger. He exuded calm confidence, impressive given the situation. It was the type of strategy that gained misplaced goodwill. No way he was taking another tracking chip. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“You really wanna ask me that question.” Mack crossed his arms over his bath robe. “I got FBI’s Most Wanted in my damn kitchen. If I thought you belonged in custody, I’d have met you on the dock with Ross.”

“Why not a SHIELD facility?”

“Because SHIELD absolutely cannot be fraternizing with the two of you. Consequences.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Except the Director.”

Mack picked up a NASA mug of hot chocolate from the table. “I can see why Fury likes you so much. I'm doing this as a favor I owe to him, period. You debrief me on HYDRA, Langham — all of it — and maybe I've got a trick up my sleeve. You don’t care to extend me your trust, there’s the door and good luck.”

Bucky glanced at Steve. Pick the poison: freeze outside or take a chance on SHIELD. It was a cordial cornering. 

“Deal.” Steve extended a clammy hand. Bucky offered his left.

Mack shook on it, both of them. The guy was stone cold with a steady heartbeat, Bucky begrudged him. He checked his watch. “I'm due back in DC, so let's get started. You got an extra day, tops, but don’t break anything. And definitely don’t talk to the neighbors.”

“This is your home?”

“It’s somewhere I stay sometimes. Easy to hide in a crowd."

***

Bucky sent the group text and set down his phone. He listened to the soothing rhythm of rain hitting the curtained window panes. Steve sat across the kitchen table, studying the Visceragen card from Langham. Their assorted personal effects dried on a bath towel: the compass, his latest pocket journal. Steve had taken his gloves off and the smooth fine agility of his hands contrasted with the suit’s brute physicality. It was an hour since Mack left and Steve had yet to shower or change into the clothes he'd been offered.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Steve said in a voice that sounded rusted as a hundred years.

“Can’t dwell on it.”

He nodded and sniffed abruptly, wiping his face. “Yeah.” It cracked and he tried again. “Yeah, I know.”

Bucky reached out his right hand and let it rest on Steve’s, along the lines of his veins and tendons. What was done was done. He couldn’t pick up the pieces for him; some paths had to be walked alone. It was easy to love Steve for his strength, like the summer sun, Captain America. Most people did. 

He returned his attention to the task before him. His vibranium fingers worked in harmony with the flesh, deftly going through the motions of oiling and reassembling the Sig, focused on the small parts and how they interlocked. It was quiet. He startled when Steve spoke.

“I was so angry. At Langham, sure, but I think…” Steve trailed off, tracing the compass edges. “Everything that’s happened. I mean, _everything_. Ma getting sick, the 4-F's, HYDRA. You. Pegs. This.” He waved a hand at himself, then winced in the telltale sign of a passing migraine.

“Steve. Steve.” Bucky set aside the gun. “Trust me, keep looking to the past and it’s only gonna give you more pain.”

“It’s there all the time; I can feel it, this rage like I’m a powder keg waiting for a match.” Steve ground a palm into his temple and blinked, unfocused. “Maybe it was always there. What if I can’t let it go?”

“Then you work on it, a little at a time.”

Steve shook his head as the episode cleared. “That’s who I’m scared of. Whoever I am when I’m not fighting.”

The next words hit Bucky like a punch. 

“I can't drag you down with me. Not again.”

“We been over this. That's my call to make. I never had a choice before, never.” Bucky pointed fiercely, his composure fraying. “I made a choice this time.”

“I don't know if I'm a good person anymore, Buck.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Is it? I almost ordered you to execute a man! I’m no better than Pierce.”

“You are nothing like Pierce, Steve. Nothing.” Bucky stood and braced above the table. “Langham’s alive.”

“It was too close. You deserve more.”

“Don’t tell me what I deserve.”

“After this is over, I’ll have Nat give you a cover to get out—”

“I’m not leaving you.” Breathe, keep your breath. 

“Yes, you will.” Steve regarded him seriously; it was already settled.

Bucky lifted his chin defiantly, flesh hand shaking. He pushed back. “You remember what you said to me, when you were sick?”

“Buck—”

“ _You said_ , you were afraid of a good thing when you coulda had it.” Bucky spread his arms wide. If Steve was going to stab him in the gut, do it now. “Well, here it is. Second chance. Whatever that looks like for us, it’s a hell of a lot better than what you’re talking.”

Steve paused and it was an opening. Then his mouth turned down in a twist of self-disgust, quickly shuttered away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bucky pushed the table aside to catch Steve by surprise, half-up from the chair, and flung him to the floor. The linoleum dented under them and Bucky pinned harsh vibranium to Steve's throat. Steve struggled below him; not a particular move, but testing his strength. He pressed in with all his bulk and let Steve feel it, remember it: They were equal. 

“You forget I could’ve killed you, twice? You think I don’t know about bad people, real evil?” Bucky yelled as Steve gasped, his head forced into a vulnerable angle, jugular exposed and pulse jumping. Bucky let go and sat back, straddling him, the point made. His nerves screamed on the edge of a trigger attack: the helicarrier, the target, kill or be killed. Breathe. “Fuck your bullshit, I swear to god you drive a guy crazy!” His eyes stung and he raged against that too, the pointless stupidity of it all. “I don’t need you to be a fucking saint, Steve! None of us is.”

Steve’s face crumpled below him, in a way it hadn’t since childhood, and even then rarely. He started to shake his head, gaze skittering anywhere but Bucky. Then he closed his eyes. Bucky felt the tension beneath him relax, his body content to stay pinned and concede at least the physical struggle. When Steve opened his eyes they were on Bucky. And stayed there. “If it doesn’t work?”

“You have to try.” He willed it with his whole being. “God damn you Rogers, promise me you'll try.”

“Okay,” Steve whispered in surrender. “Alright. I promise.” His hands came up to run along Bucky’s arms, one flesh, one metal. Released, he nosed forward to where Bucky’s hair hung loose, to where chapped lips opened to his warm mouth.

***

“Sorry, I know this isn’t much space, but you can stay.” Bucky cast around the bare hut he’d bought, grimacing to himself. Fuck, it was probably worse than the fleabag hideouts he was using with Natasha and Sam. There was a literal dirt floor.

Steve gave a tight apologetic smile. “Not while HYDRA’s still out there.”

“Please say this isn’t about me.”

“It’s not about you.”

“You don’t have to avenge me—”

“I’m not avenging you, Bucky, c’mon—”

“Because I’m right here—”

“I know, and I need you to stay right here until I figure a way to get you amnesty. You were a prisoner of war, you don’t deserve this.”

“This seems like a pretty good deal to me. I bought a house and a goat. So this is you not walking away from a fight again?”

“HYDRA isn’t a kid in a back alley.”

“Of course I fucking know that!” Bucky exploded. “They’re a thousand times worse and you’ll never root them out, not completely, because there will always be one person who buys the message they’re peddling and decides to fuck the world up in the name of fixing it.”

“I have to do something!” Steve slammed his palm down on a chair, driving its legs halfway into the dirt, his face clouded with fury deeper than the conversation at hand.

“The only thing stopped your last tour of duty was the bottom of the ocean, so what’s it gonna take this time? You wanna go back to war so bad, fucking go already.” 

Bucky ached to gather all the words he had spewed and cram them down his throat as if they’d never been uttered. He curled in around his bitterness. The nastiness lingered like a toxic cloud.

“Buck, please.” Softer, but unmoved.

Steve reached out and Bucky shied away reflexively, turning aside the empty socket of his left arm. It was hidden by a cloth strip, otherwise strangers on the street saw right into him, saw exactly which parts weren’t human anymore and never would be again. He didn’t want the staring or the pity or god forbid some pointing crying child. But Steve wasn’t those things, was he? Steve had seen the mess after Stark destroyed the old arm. He paused. All the feelings loosed from deprogramming were sloshing around too loud and messy, and he was terrified of spilling them. What was the worst that might happen? Steve wasn't staying. 

He grit his teeth, then lifted the cloth away from his shoulder, over his head and off. He let Steve gaze at the uncanny absence, the metallic innards, this incomplete part of himself. Bucky showed him all of it. If those dancehall girls and boys from Brooklyn saw cocky James B. Barnes now. 

Steve was carefully neutral. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said truthfully, surprised at the question. The argument passed into their shared history, joining hundreds of prior arguments. He found himself trying to decipher this new Steve, trying to see the man behind the ragged hair and beard, the healing black eye from whatever mission he’d been on when they thawed Bucky out of cryo. 

Steve didn’t flinch when Bucky traced the bruised skin, barely touching at all. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” Steve moved his head slightly, enough to encourage the touch, and Bucky let his fingertips rest on the line of his cheekbone. 

And kept them there. 

The seconds counted up and Bucky knew then it wasn’t a faulty memory or wishful figment: The air between them was charged. His heart beat faster.

Steve tilted his face further and this time Bucky let the pad of his index finger slide to Steve’s bottom lip, and it was like watching someone else do this, make this bold move with so many repercussions. He wanted to jump out of his skin. Steve’s lips parted and hot breath puffed on his finger, the slightest tip of tongue above lower teeth, and sure he’d seen Steve try to be charming and chivalrous, maybe disarmingly flirtatious, but never this. A purposeful lust. He’d never seen Steve be _sexy_ , and it flooded him with exhilarated hunger. For it to happen now, like this… Bucky exhaled sharply with an audible _huh_.

If he fucked this up he may as well go right back to cryo and be shot into space. Then Steve was coming forward, closer, to the point where there was no easy retreat. There had never been an easy retreat. Blood was rushing in his ears, heart pounding, and Bucky dropped his hand to twist in the front of Steve’s undershirt, whether to push him away or pull him in he didn’t know. 

Bucky finally glanced up and saw his pupils dark and wide, circled with blue, flush high on his cheeks. Steve was trembling, his whole body, and it was so clear: Pull him in.

Steve kissed him sweetly, tentatively, as if it was his first. It was almost like kissing a girl. The bristles of his beard shattered the initial illusion and time stuttered. He brushed the hairs with his lips, tasting dust and salt. He opened his mouth and there they were, their insides unchanged, the same fundamental lungs pumping in and out, despite everything. How many times had he imagined this very act? Hundreds, thousands. He ached to crawl inside and consume it all, and Steve would let him, want him.

The moment stretched on and Bucky clung to it desperately. If this was the one time he got, then he couldn't let it end. He was too covetous. He seared the sensations into what remained of his brain, imprinted them on his individual cells. If he forgot his life, his name, he’d never forget this. They’d never wipe this. Steve pressed them together and Bucky caught his breath short, lost in the sheer presence of him this close, this intimate, needy for the same thing, exploring each other’s bodies. What had been familiar was new again in a different way. Steve thickened against his inner thigh, thrusting shallowly to seek... something that wasn’t there. Shit.

Steve stopped short as Bucky broke away, crashing to reality. Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion, half-drunk with arousal. He turned red. “Sorry, I--”

“It’s not like before,” Bucky said, with a rough gesture to his uninterested crotch, steeling himself before a wave of feelings he chose not to examine. “I don’t think I’ll ever be like before.”

“What,” Steve said, caught off-guard.

“Sometimes it works, mostly it doesn’t.” Bucky bared this last ugly secret in a rush, and considered dropping through the floor and vanishing. It was humiliating. “HYDRA chemically neutered for field work.”

Granted, the serum fixed his balls every time, thank god, and there was medication available, but the idea of more pills after HYDRA was enough to trigger him into a panicked spiral. He tackled his thorny issues one by one and his non-existent sex life was a decidedly lower priority than brainwashing and murder. Astoundingly, there were worse things than being armless and dickless. According to his shrink this was all intertwined.

Bucky watched Steve process this new information. If Steve even thought about pitying him, Bucky would rather go celibate the rest of his life. A man could only take so much indignity.

Steve’s face fell, draining to white, and he turned to the curtained doorway, hands on his hips, out of reach. He walked two paces away and then two paces back, fists falling to clench so tight his knuckles went pale. It seemed like miles. A goat bleated in the yard. He looked at Bucky and his expression had that careful neutrality Bucky couldn’t read, that made him wonder who Steve really was these days and how much he was burying.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky repeated.

Steve swallowed. “Can we… do that again?”

Bucky closed his eyes and when he opened them Steve was still there, determined and searching. 

“Yes, fuck. Yes.”

Two days later, Fury sent coordinates for a HYDRA base in Poland. 

Bucky watched the quinjet leave, then told Shuri he was starting physical therapy.

***

Bucky dragged the kitchen table back to its proper place and frowned at the scuff marks it left. He retrieved his Sig from the floor, checked the slide, and reloaded the magazine with the automatic motions of routine. Crooked on the table was Steve's compass, half-opened to tease Peggy's knowing gaze. The hall bathroom light clicked on while Steve peeled off his tac suit, followed by sounds of the toilet and sink. Bucky cradled the compass in his palm and let the needle settle north towards her.

“Am I doing this right, Carter?” he murmured. She seemed so sure, but any wisdom she might've given was silent forever. He clicked the compass shut.

An abrupt buzzing startled him — the cellphone.

“Think this one's for you.” Bucky tapped the bathroom door and passed the phone to Steve, who grimaced.

Through the door, he heard Sam yelling on the other end of the call. Meanwhile, Bucky studied the cozy den, the photographs on the wall: two men by a sleek muscle car, too similar to be anything but brothers; a woman, smiling, in a park during autumn; a child in white lace baptism dress. Fragments of a life, another home that wasn't a home. Steve returned in a comically small t-shirt and Knicks shorts and set the phone to speaker for Natasha, ignoring Bucky’s guffaw.

“How’s the leg?”

“Remarkably inflexible.”

“Got intel on this Visceragen group?”

Natasha made a frustrated noise. “Langham was right; they’re covert. They don’t exist. We checked his personal info, the DHS contracting agreement, and it’s all empty shell fronts. His wife thinks he works for Doctors Without Borders. Nothing in the HYDRA data dump about older projects. Doesn’t mean it isn’t there. If it’s another encryption level, it'll take days to search.”

“We can’t just drop this, Nat.”

“You’re gonna have to, for now. Coverage is getting too hot. Let Hill and the Director work on Ross.”

“Yeah, try laying low and not blowing stuff up,” Sam said testily in the background.

That was a big ask, Bucky thought.

***

It was approaching midnight and neither of them mustered the calm for sleep. Their time was up at daybreak, and they would leave the safehouse empty-handed under the gloom of an incomplete mission. Bucky swished a sad excuse for beer around in his mouth, a bottle he’d found in the fridge. The taste didn’t remind him of a bar, or baseball games, or anything in particular. He finished the bottle because he’d opened it. He played with the recliner angle while Steve watched the late-night news, a furrowed brow making him appear more grim than usual as he hunched over a coffee table piled high with exercise magazines. 

“... followed by a special rerun of _Patriot in Exile: The Steve Rogers Story_.” Steve scoffed.

Bucky's news alerts had slowly changed from NYC epidemic coverage to Winter Soldier speculation before he'd turned them off. Natasha and Sam were right; the powers that be were ratcheting up the mainstream media heat, hoping to flush them out. All it took was one call from a See Something Say Something disciple. 

Bucky studied the Visceragen card for the hundredth time. Each iterative exposure was fractionally less alarming, less sweaty-palmed adrenaline. The specter of the woman remained another unknowable mystery lost to his memory. Wait. 

His memory.

Bucky launched from the recliner and Steve rose in alarm. “I’m the intel.”

“What?”

“The flashback when I saw this symbol, there was a woman, a doctor. Her program. I knew her—”

“Woah, slow down.”

Bucky slapped the card on his palm, sure now. “I know all this. I just gotta access it.”

“Access what?”

“The memories." Bucky said it aloud and stopped. 

He recalled every kill shot from his missions — hell, they were in the shadows every night — but this was a hunt among the lesser details. Most of those frequently tortuous experiences he’d repressed for good reason. Fuck. At best this was going to be unpleasant, like getting a tooth pulled cold turkey was unpleasant. At worst? Well. 

The Soldier no longer existed; there wasn't a program to trigger. But he could get lost in the recollection, locked in the past. The safe words might not work. This would be purposeful submersion and the longest extension yet of the meditation he’d been practicing. He knew how the Wakandan team had done it during his deprogramming, and he knew the memories were there, but was he prepared to find them? Trying to do this now, in a vastly less-controlled environment, was jumping into a quarry lake after standing in a kiddie pool. Or ziplining onto a speeding train. His shrink might kill him.

He thought of Steve in that secret medical room with all the wires and tubes and HYDRA, unable to speak or move, fearing he'd lost decades again.

Ah, fuck it.

So he laid out the plan for Steve and wrote the words in their particular order, phonetically, and the flashback details he remembered. 

When he was done, Steve read through the list and the descriptions. He rubbed his eyes wearily, then tilted his head at Bucky. _You sure?_ Bucky nodded. We can do this. It was their best shot right now. 

The latest argument was fresh in both their minds, so Steve bit back whatever numerous misgivings clearly came to mind, and folded onto the floor opposite Bucky, who settled into his usual meditation posture. Of course this was anything but the usual. Maybe it wouldn't work at all and they'd be two idiots sitting on a carpet in suburban Delaware. Breathe.

“Go ahead when you’re ready,” Bucky said, pretending his heart wasn't about to jump out and run away down the block.

There was a brief silence. “Желание. Семнадцать …”

He cleared his mind and followed the commands into stillness.

It was very cold. Fragments of scenes nudged at him with terrible, screaming dread. He didn't want to look.

Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes. Focus.

Inhale, exhale. Stay in control.

Steve’s voice.

“A tall woman with long dark hair, wire-frame glasses, young. She's speaking English and directing you not to move. You're in a medical laboratory. She gives you an injection and leaves.”

The flashback scene replayed, slower this time. That jived, but didn’t give him new info. He waited.

“The same woman, she orders two lumbar punctures. You're sick.”

A fever, right. He’s on his side. The woman is on the edge of his peripheral and directs for a shut down after the second puncture. He catches the waving mane of dark hair, the sway of it—

The sun is bright, the air humid. He’s outside himself, the Soldier, enduring one of Arnim Zola’s rambling monologues that had become even more common in his old age. Zola is the fuzzed outline of a shade, but Bucky knows it’s him; the associated dread hangs heavy as a storm cloud. They’re by a bookstore, Casa del Libro. Seville. It must be the early 70s, close to Zola's physical death. Protection detail. His speech comes and goes in wisps, like tuning a radio. Musings on Borges and Camus, the itinerary for their train ride to Barcelona and then to Milan, progress on a computer system he’s developing, the latest letters from retired SHIELD coworkers. 

Bucky sees her as the Soldier does: A woman across the cobbled plaza where the cathedral arches cast shadows, hair teasing the breeze.

“You remember… No, I suppose you wouldn’t, old friend,” Zola chuckles. “Keep us in your sights. I will be only a little while.”

The Soldier scopes the perimeter, tucked away by a tree in the courtyard like a reaper. Bucky's senses merge with the Soldier for a fleeting moment — tension, confusion — the woman, needles, do not move — he fights free and inhales a foul, gagging smell—

The small room is thick with the scent. Bucky glares balefully at the durian fruit in the apartment kitchen. He has his gear set up on the windowsill facing the opposing high-rise. The former occupant is dead on the floor and attracting flies. He knows he shot her as she answered the door, instantaneous. This is his position, there is no compromising, the odor must be borne. Back to the riflescope. It’s his Barrett M95 rifle. Mid to late 1990s. He sights the woman in the apartment across the street and tracks her from window to window. She’s older now, with thicker glasses and a yellow floral dress. It means nothing to the Soldier. 

A middle-aged man enters and the scene became deja vu: This is the target. He pulls the trigger without hesitation and a neat red hole soundlessly appears. Target eliminated. Mission completed. 

The memory wanted to fade but Bucky held onto it; he needed more information. Where is he, Southeast Asia, stay with it, stay with it god damn it—

Rewinding and he’s shooting the young woman as she answers the door, no no no, before that part, don’t get lost in it—

Outside the apartment buildings late at night, vendor stalls, he’s on a motorbike, check the street name, arriving at the airport—

The airport. Hong Kong. 

Check the street name, hide the motorbike, grab the rifle case, shooting her as she— 

Focus, rewind.

The street name, the apartment buildings— 

Kowloon.

Shooting her as she answers the door, silencer on, point-blank, no time to shape an expression, no name, no face— 

Teeth on the floor, he doesn’t step on them, the smell, the stench of blood and brain matter, it permeates, the flies buzz, always flies buzzing on the kills, reload, reload— 

The asset, Bucky, the asset has a name, he is the asset, he is Bucky—

The ghouls are crowding, insistent for recognition, grabbing for him, screaming their fury, oh jesus, oh no—

It's in the past.

Breathe.

In, out.

Bucky clawed up and broke the surface into the dim living room. He wobbled, disoriented, the scent chasing him, then lurched two steps to the bathroom and threw up. 

How long had he been away? Steve sat with one hand half-outstretched, paper in the other. Bucky's watch counted the next minute.

“Buck?”

“She’s Visceragen, she was in Hong Kong,” he rasped, the sour remnants of cheap beer burning his throat.

Steve shot up. “That's it! You got it?”

“No name. I got an address, I can find it.” 

Bucky looked to the counter top where Mack's briefcase was latched. A few tricks up his sleeve.

***

Ross gazed out over the frozen expanse of the Reflecting Pool, where the white obelisk of the Washington Monument was in fuzzed double vision. The aircraft warning lights at the pinnacle blinked and guided in the last late-night flights to Reagan. His mustache had frosted over and he stomped his feet to keep feeling as another man approached from the manicured treeline.

“Sonuvabitch, been warmer in Siberia,” Ross swore.

“You chose the place, sir.” Mack buried his hands deeper in his coat pockets.

“I don't know what the hell is bugged these days.” Ross sniffed. “So. Wilmington. Agent Hill backs your analysis of this shit show.”

“Langham's in custody with WITSEC and a lawyer.”

“And I've got a HYDRA problem again. Fucking roaches.”

“You really didn't know?”

Ross glared. “You may think I'm an asshole but I put this country first. Visceragen, that's not news. Did I know HYDRA was pulling their strings? No. Figured it was CIA black ops, some Mossad bullshit.”

“I want an investigation at DHS. This impacts SHIELD too.”

“Congress doesn't have the time, funds, or balls to go through that again. I've pulled a few people inside, they're working on it.”

“They're working on it. You expect me to buy that and go away satisfied?”

“If I tell you more, you'll end up dead. That tends to happen around here lately. They'll contact you.”

“And what about Visceragen?”

“That's out of my jurisdiction.”

“You're shitting me.” Mack shook his head. “I could take this all to the press tomorrow morning. Sunlight's the best disinfectant.”

“Visceragen's been around for decades, Director. The amount of bioweapons information they've compiled dwarfs our own cache. We turn on them, they cozy up to China, Russia, you know how this game works. Now, you're new to this level of chess, but there are tens of covert ops — a few in SHIELD — and it's naïve to think they should be public knowledge.”

Mack sighed and it released a cloud of vapor that whisked away in the wind. “We throw the law at Rogers and Barnes then turn a blind eye to Visceragen? Can't do that, sir.”

“Then study the chessboard. You’re the director of SHIELD. I know you didn’t get here by winning the lottery and praying to Jesus.”

***

Sam fumbled with the keys to the walk-up apartment building, bracing his phone between ear and shoulder, and clutching the parts of a damaged wingtip to his chest. A gust of early morning snow flurries blew into the front hall with him.

“When I said lay low, I didn't mean they should go to Hong Kong.” He kicked the door shut behind him and started up the rickety carpeted staircase.

“It's not Sokovia,” Natasha said, a glass clinking in the foreground.

“HYDRA knows they know about Visc—” He stopped and lowered his voice. “You know. Whoever's in Hong Kong is gonna be prepared. We should do backup.”

“We make a move and Ross is up all our asses. I told Steve before, _persona non grata_. They're on their own.”

“I don't like it.” Sam dropped the next set of keys in the hall and sighed in exasperation.

“Ready for moving day?”

“No. I'll call you later.”

He jiggled the doorknob and swore at the ancient lock. The door opened from the inside.

“Ma? What?”

Mrs. Wilson shot him a withering look over her bifocals and motioned for him to take off his boots. “Sara gave me her key this morning, get a head start on this cleaning. You may be an Avenger but I heard you coming ten yards away.” Her voice was soft and rich, a lifetime of gospel choir and not a single cigarette.

Sam navigated the few cardboard boxes in the modest apartment and set the broken wingtip on the kitchen island next to an old scrub bucket and sponge. His ma touched the clean bullet hole in the metal, inspecting the damage with a quiet _tut-tut_.

“That councilman would've been dead. And they say Hells Kitchen is the nice neighborhood.”

“Things are just crazy since the epidemic. It'll quiet down.”

“No, I don't think it will,” she said, resigned, turning on the tap water to warm. 

The bucket filled with suds and the lemon scent of weekend cleaning curled into the musty apartment, a tang so nostalgic it made Sam ache. Was it selfish to miss this? The chance to go back home to family was a luxury the universe doled out arbitrarily. 

“Am I doing the right thing here?”

The corners of her mouth turned up. “Baby, you have to answer that one yourself. I love having you here with Sara and the boys, putting down roots, I do. But you’ve always been drawn to bigger things.”

Sam scrubbed at his face. “I keep telling people it's okay to let go of the war and make their own life. That serving your country isn’t only about deployment. I just wish I could know that he'd be okay with it, that he'd understand.” The mangled wingtip reminded him of a different pair.

The tap turned off and his ma folded his hands into hers. They were warm and large and sure, just as he'd remembered them. The crows feet at the corners of her eyes shone. “We always want the best for those we love. That's one thing I know.”

Sam accepted this wisdom along with a sponge and set to work cleaning the cabinets. Hard questions never came with easy answers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No, the jungle wasn't evil. It was indifferent. So, too, was the world. Evil, then, must be the negation of something man had added to the world. Ultimately, it was caring about something that made the world liable to evil. And then the caring gets torn asunder. Everybody dies, but not everybody cares._  
>  — Karl Marlantes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for graphic violence, some gore, some suicidal thoughts, and an instance of implied torture. Supporting character very loosely borrowed from Earth-616 universe.

“You fellas sitting in for, let me see... Flight 179, United?”

“All sixteen hours.”

“Whew, god bless. Gate C98. Here’s your badges back, and sign the log for me.”

“You want our SHIELD ID where it says Fed Air Marshal number?”

“That’s the one. Had these forms since 2005, TSA doesn’t pay to update shit. Your hands cold too? I had to wear a full-on parka in here yesterday.”

“Bad circulation.”

“And the luggage?”

“Oh. What is it?”

“Satellite dish; pretty sensitive. Top-secret.”

“Can’t say that’s the strangest one I’ve heard. I’ll page ground crew to meet you. It ain’t going in the overhead bin. Keep your sidearms and go on through, don’t mind the alarm.”

“Appreciate it. You have a nice afternoon.”

“Agent Phillips, Agent Carson. Thank you for your service, you fellas have a safe flight.”

***

They regarded the skinny apartment building across the street, unremarkably jammed in a row of similar condos. The street itself was a cacophony of early evening hubbub; scooters, cars, bicycles, pedestrians. Where neighboring buildings’ balconies were adorned with fresh laundry, this address was devoid of habitation from every side they scoped. The windows were dark, balconies empty, and the entire building dripped grime.

Bucky tugged at the tight tac suit neckline under his street clothes. Flying sixteen hours commercial with Carson’s face had been hell. He had an unshakeable bad feeling. Not surprising; it was HYDRA and they were in the midst of an incredibly crowded, highly-exposed street where a balcony was a potential spider hole.

He pressed into the shadows. Steve-as-Agent-Phillips tightened his grasp on the ridiculous cymbal case. Even more ridiculous, it wasn’t the only cymbal case he’d seen in Kowloon. The longer they stayed in one spot the more claustrophobia crept in.

“Let’s go,” he said, louder than he meant.

Agent Phillips agreed.

Bucky led the way across the street, an intricate dance in a moving sea. He had been here before, yet nothing was familiar. The mismatched deja vu strengthened. He ran down the mental checklist of weapons on his person, each knife and each gun in its place and cleaned. He was in control. The foreboding persisted and he grew annoyed at it.

He pushed open the main door into a cramped anteroom. The paint peeled from the walls. No security. Characters were printed neatly on a mailbox. Bucky shucked off Agent Carson’s photostatic veil and yanked the metal mailbox: No letters or packages. Agent Phillips’s face smushed sideways and rolled into a ball as Steve took out his shield. Steve wordlessly broke the lock on the second door. No alarm. It opened to a single staircase going up. 

Bucky checked the safety on his Sig, relieved to see Steve as actual Steve. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either, but we have to go in.” Steve rolled his shoulders and squinted up the stairs.

"We could wait. It doesn't have to be now." 

It had to be now. Longer and the already-slim opening closed for good; HYDRA was a chameleon. They were without a team, without comms. They had taken all the stupid with them, together.

Steve paused. “Remember when we drank Paulie’s moonshine and you tried to sneak out the fire escape?”

Bucky groaned. “My foot slipped and I ate it the whole way. Broke my nose.”

“Told my ma it was a robber. She said the only person who’d make such a dumb racket is that Bucky Barnes.”

“Yeah, yeah. You done flappin’ your gums?”

Steve hid his grin and plunged forward. They went up. And up. At what Bucky guessed was the fourth door-less landing in the seven-story building he tapped Steve’s hip from behind, making sure to whisper. 

“All those apartments outside? Fucking decoys.”

As if on cue the next landing presented a door. Unmarked and unremarkable. Bucky raised an eyebrow and steadied the trigger. Steve shrugged and knocked, bringing the shield forward. Nothing. Not so much as a footstep in the place. Bucky nodded to the unasked question and Steve plowed through the door, knocking it askew off the hinges.

The apartment was well-furnished despite the exterior shabbiness. Grimey streaks covered the windows and the light struggling in was a sickly yellow-brown. It smelled faintly of mothballs. A clock ticked. Outside, the late rush hour ruckus continued.

“Hello? Anyone?” Steve called. 

Silence. The apartment had the stillness of an empty space.

“Came all this way and nobody’s home.” 

Bucky’s dread followed him like a dark physical cloud. The apartment was remodeled but the dimensions were the same. He tucked himself into a corner, half-expecting to see the scope reflection of his rifle in the opposite building windows. His eyes flicked from surface to cranny. Compared to the typical Kowloon living quarters, this was a palace, and decorated in the Western style. 

They carefully picked their way around the combined living and dining room. The furniture was classical, dusted, and the upholstery well-cared for. Steve poked his head into the kitchen; tidy and clean. Nothing on the stove, an empty sink. The single bathroom in the hallway had a flush toilet and tub. One toothbrush. The bedroom was small, occupied by a large bed and dresser. The dresser held the only personal decor in the apartment: two picture frames.

A woman and child, in older-style clothes, in a place Bucky recognized as Tokyo.

The same child and— 

Bucky’s stomach plummeted. The photo clattered to the floor, where Steve retrieved it curiously. Bucky didn’t hear his reaction. He was already gone, caught in a quirky eddie of time that had been the hallmark of his days after the helicarrier.

The bone saw. The electroshock: Try it again, if you please. 

The particular way he removes his glasses and deliberately cleans each lens. The little red bow tie, slightly askew. 

_And again, please._

He came back to the present with Steve’s hard grip on his jaw, fearfully tense.

“Got it, I’m here,” Bucky said roughly and Steve sagged in relief, hands running over his neck and shoulders, retreating. “Sorry, didn’t mean to float off,” he muttered. 

He confronted the photo. The family resemblance was unmistakable. 

“Zola’s daughter.” Bucky laid the fact flat on its face and examined it. “That’s why she was around.”

“His _what?_ No. That’s impossible.” Steve stared at the photo. “It wasn’t in his files. He didn’t have a wife.”

“You think you know a guy,” he joked grimly. 

“I mean, what, she’s his hidden lovechild?”

Bucky snorted. “Running a global HYDRA enterprise isn’t what I’d call hiding.” He cased the bedroom for other clues. Old clothing and a hairbrush. No personal effects. HYDRA’s ability to endure in bizarre, uncanny ways, the very thing which so frustrated Steve, ceased to surprise him. The past persisted. No matter how hard he tried to move forward, the ghouls always dragged him back. That didn’t mean he’d let them win, though. “Family mysteries or not, the lovechild has your serum.”

Steve shook his head, baffled, and peered at the photo again. “Well, you think she stashed it here?”

“The apartment? No.”

They went back to the landing, up a final flight of stairs, to a padlocked door resembling a utility closet access. The hallway abruptly ended at a wall, despite room for one additional story above them. Steve broke the chain and opened the door.

The smell flooded out and dominated. A damp mildewy pungent odor, it made Steve reflexively lift a hand in front of his nose. 

“What the hell?”

“Here, hold on.” Bucky flipped Steve his lighter and took out the cellphone.

There was a tiny clink and the lighter’s little flame sprung forth, barely piercing the putrid gloom. The phone’s blue glow followed. On the left was a contraption Bucky determined was a lift. The mechanisms terminated above the ceiling; it’s sole direction was down. Well, it explained the extra building space. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

The interior past the lift was a gallery of curtains strung from the ceiling, thick with mold blooms. Spores floated in the flimsy light. Steve drew aside a curtain to reveal an old oil drum. He kicked the side and it thudded, full.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned. “I don’t wanna know.”

They crept deeper into the room, Bucky pushing aside curtains with the nose of his gun. A cloud of spores enveloped them, and with it the pungent odor. Meanwhile, a dull throbbing headache was taking root at the base of his skull. He rolled his shoulder, trying to lose the tension. They passed another silent row of oil drums. How far back did this room go? A floor filled with moldy curtains? The lighter cast crazed flickering shadows. He imagined it catching a curtain and sending the whole place up in flames before they found their way out. 

The small amount of light from the hallway disappeared. His headache flared, aural floaters dancing into his vision like he’d stared at the sun for too long. What the hell. He followed Steve past the next two curtains and stopped short, ready to jump out of his skin. His left arm brought the gun up. 

It was a Chair. 

Steve spared it a glance and moved on, leaving Bucky incredulous. 

“Steve! Hey, Steve!” he hissed. His pulse raced, a cold sweat trickling under the suit. “Fucking... Steve!” he called again. 

A fuzzed shape moved in his periphery and Bucky spun, wildly off-balance. Focus. Breathe. The shape—what the actual fuck—slowly resolved and began to sit in the Chair. 

“Steve!”

***

Steve rubbed his eyes at the opening throb of a headache. He didn’t have time for this. He tried to remember the exterior building dimensions and match them to the absurd floor plan. The lighter fluid was going to run dry soon, they should check out the lift. No way anyone would hide themselves this far into a molded room. He sighed and winced as the headache continued to build, threatening a full-blown migraine. The dark, cold dampness of the room gave him an involuntary shudder and he considered telling Bucky to call it quits as he pulled another curtain. 

He started, flinging up the shield, but then relaxed— And so did the man on the other side. Who the hell puts a mirror here? Some fucking fun-house this was. Wait. Where was Bucky? 

Steve went to turn but an odd thing happened. The other Steve didn’t move. Steve frowned. His reflection did not. Bewildered, he reached out. 

It didn’t touch glass, it merely went through the frame, towards the Other Man. 

“Bucky?” he yelled.

***

Bucky stood rooted to the spot, helplessly entranced. The fuzzy figure gained clarity, and it was _him_. It was him and Not Him. Was this a bad memory? Had he finally fucking lost all his marbles? He bit his tongue on purpose and tasted real blood, the pain was real, he was real, okay, okay. All his mental alarms blared like fucking competing foghorns. 

His left arm held his Sig steady. He was Bucky, not... Whatever it was. But still. What if. Did shooting your doppelganger kill you too? Christ, this was fucked up. He flinched as he took the shot—shot _himself_ —but only the discharge echo remained as proof he had fired. Not Him looked at Bucky. 

It was the empty thousand-yard stare of a blank mind. An automaton, a true cyborg, not a man. What he was meant to be, the end goal. His purpose. A perfect weapon programmed for killing. No painful emotions, nothing messy and complicated. Simple. There are missions and a purpose, clearly stated. Yes, true. Every vital need attended, every vital organ eventually replaced. 

Very simple. 

Isn’t that nice?

Things faded to black.

***

Steve drew back as though he’d been burned. In fact the lighter was off, he realized, and he was alone on this side. 

“Who are you? What is this?” Steve demanded. 

Was this an alien trick? A hologram? How? He retreated a step and the Other Man moved closer, and closer still, with a certainty that filled Steve with dread. He had half-lifted the shield and now he made to punch the Other Man but instead watched his fist go through... Himself. A ghost? 

It chilled deep into his soul. Not a ghost. A future. 

The vision passed in jarring clarity: He would fail to protect Bucky, again. The possibilities were myriad. A bad stroke of luck and gone without final parting words like so many others in war. A descent into rage, violence. Blind grief and madness. The futility of it all warping his being. He would commit atrocities.

A metal skeleton stepped through the Other Man, who dissolved into wisps as Steve’s head spun. 

Things faded: It was the nothingness place. 

It would be okay. He couldn’t hurt anyone there.

***

Drugged, he must’ve been drugged. Bucky blinked into consciousness and cursed. What a stupid, asinine rookie mistake. The mold spores, of fucking course. He squinted at fluorescent lights and realized he was on the concrete floor in a large open space.

“Steve?” he croaked.

Some _thing_ moved behind him with a mechanical whine. And, okay, he’d seen a lot of weird shit so maybe the spindly robot wasn’t all that surprising. 

Bucky scrambled to his feet, instantly woozy, and reached for his gun. It wasn’t there. Neither was the one on his other thigh, or the one at the small of his back. In the space of the pause, someone said a command in Mandarin. The skeletal android, robot, whatever the fuck it was, unfolded an extra appendage and tazed him.

The voltage hit him in the right arm and Bucky spasmed in pain, body going rigid. When he came back to himself his mouth was full of blood. He wiggled his fingers on his right, thank god.

“Sputnik.”

Bucky winced, the word buzzing like a lost hive of bees before dissipating into harmless syllables. The voice repeated the word, louder, as if he was hard of hearing.

“Fuck you.” He spat a blood clot. “Steve!” he called, trying to scan the room. 

It was a laboratory, vast and apparently deserted. The lights lit a row of clean autopsy tables and bench areas. There were drains in the floor.

“Doesn’t work? Interesting,” the voice mused. “Prep him.”

Prep him. Bucky shivered, and the robot hauled him up. It was a tall, sturdy android, no obvious wire exposures to exploit in the joints. The taser was a major advantage. It dragged Bucky to face the opposite direction, where the full direness of the situation revealed itself in grim detail.

Along the wall were glass tanks like aquariums, preserving specimens of limbs and heads, assorted organs with strange mutations, whole bodies missing various pieces. They floated in brown liquid, flesh gray and wrinkled like after a long bath. There was one empty tank, prepped for cryo. Steve was in it.

Bucky went blank with rage, screaming through a second hit from the taser when he wrestled away from the robot— _robots_ , because there were ten, twenty, swarming and whirring. He snarled as one tased him in the thigh, buckling his leg enough for them to throw him to the floor and pin him, the force making his ribs protest. His eyes pricked and blood leaked from his nose. He stared at Steve and thank god, his chest was rising and falling where his head lolled on it, he was alive. His wrists were bound with heavy cuffs, trapped to a pole that extended into the tank.

A pair of swollen feet buckled in low-heeled shoes clipped into view. Rolled-up denim jeans, the hem of a white lab coat, folded arms, wire-rimmed glasses on an aged face and long, dark hair. The woman from his memories, the person behind Visceragen. 

She was familiar and unfamiliar, the way Hong Kong was. She spoke to him in Mandarin, and he drew a blank; some languages he retained, others were wiped, depending on the tech’s thoroughness. Her lips pursed at the realization and uttered a phrase to the robot horde instead, which responded in an eerie clamor of gears and creaks.

They hauled him to an autopsy table and began to lock in a sequence of restraints. Bucky’s mind clattered out of control, pure animal fear swelling. They were going to wipe him, or experiment on them both, or god knows what other horrors, jesus christ— 

Barnes, get a grip and breathe, breathe, panic never got you anywhere. Engage, delay, find a weakness to exploit, keep your head for Steve’s sake. 

Okay. Okay.

“What do you want,” he said, and pretended not to hear the tremor in his voice.

The woman typed on a high-tech tablet and cocked her head. The lights reflected off her glasses. “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, I know you. Zola’s daughter. You run Visceragen.”

“Impressive. I’m Jet. You shot my husband.”

Christ, not this again. “I didn’t pick the target.”

“Oh, no. I did. Him, specifically.”

That was... different. Steve groaned and Jet paused her work. Bucky grit his teeth; he knew this seemed bad. Okay, it was bad. He craned his head as best he could, which meant watching Steve’s dawning realization as he took in the scene, tested the cuffs.

“Bucky— Don’t you fucking touch him,” Steve said, straining against the bonds. They lifted enough to slide further down the pole.

“Language, Captain Rogers. And that’s certainly out of the question.” Jet selected a single sticky electrode patch, connecting the wire end to the tablet port. Bucky flinched as she smoothed the patch to his temple, caressed his chest, and consulted the tablet. Breathe, remember to breathe, keep talking, okay.

“You gonna tell us what’s going on or just play coy?” Bucky tried.

“I forget how curious humans can be.” She gestured at the robots, frozen in a perimeter around Steve’s tank and the autopsy table, and checked her watch. “I arranged transportation to a more secure location. Dr. Langham’s error was not bringing you directly to me.”

“Visceragen’s done, exposed; we’re not the only ones who know about this place, this whole operation. It’s over,” Steve said.

“So confident, Captain.” She circled the tank, hands clasped behind her, the clicking of her heels the sole sound in the laboratory. “Visceragen, like all groundbreaking research, lives on after I’ve passed from this world.” She gestured to the office filing cabinets. 

So those were the old project files. And Bucky was pretty sure the formaldehyde exhibits were the old projects.

“Knowledge is power. Every major economic power eats from my hand. Did you know Hong Kong is an ideal epicenter? Mutually assured destruction makes for wonderful diplomacy.”

“And you think that justifies treating humans worse than lab rats.” Steve scoffed. 

Jet shrugged and studied a robot’s freakish pseudo-skeletal head nodule. “Believe what you will. They are necessary collateral. I made my peace; I approach death with no fear.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna go into a computer too,” Bucky tried to joke nervously.

She smiled. Her teeth were white and clean. “I can’t say I share my father’s enthusiasm for life beyond this organic one. But, I am due his inheritance and I intend to collect it.”

“Inheritance?”

“You, Soldier.”

Bucky’s stomach flipped. “What.”

“He doesn’t belong to you, or to anyone but himself,” Steve snarled, struggling in the cuffs. They held him.

Jet laid a hand on his metal arm where it was fastened to the table. He could break the restraint, easily, though none of the escape calculations he’d been frantically running in his head included getting Steve out alive. Meanwhile his arm helpfully supplied her blood pressure statistics.

“The last months of my father’s life, you were his best companion.” Her eyes were large and sincere behind her glasses. “We all walk alone in the end, but you were a great comfort to him, a reminder of his legacy.”

“I was programmed,” Bucky spat. “What the hell is that worth? You’re so lonely, why’d you have me shoot your husband?”

Her touch retreated. “He was in the way.”

Bucky watched her return to the tablet. The situation was taking an ominous bent; stalling wasn’t a final strategy. He’d rather be killed by robots than become one, but there was still time. Keep talking. 

“Yeah, well, the triggers are gone, so good luck making me your bedside companion.”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “Humans are naturally beholden to their emotions. I always believed a more successful Soldier program was to target the anterior cingulate gyrus. An emotionless baseline reduces functional anomalies. But, my father was set in his own ways, and Pierce never listened.”

He understood the gist of it, and it chilled him to the core. Stay calm. Focus.

“Let him go, he’s suffered enough,” Steve pleaded. “You can have me instead. It’s a fair trade.”

“Steve, no,” Bucky said, closing his eyes. Jesus Christ, Steve, please shut up, this one time, shut up.

Jet ignored him and gazed at Bucky. “To look at you, Soldier, it’s 1979, the last I saw him alive. He was happy, safe. This is what he would have wanted for me, too. The universe has aligned us together.”

A cellphone rang and she snapped it open, switching to Mandarin. She glanced between them both and gave a command to the robots before clicking down the long laboratory. Bucky swallowed tightly and willed his heart back into his chest, where it jackhammered crazily. There was the mechanical grinding of a lift in the far corner, then silence save for a whirring, invisible ventilation unit. Bucky flexed his arm but a robot threatened with a taser crackle.

“Bucky, are you okay?” Steve whispered quickly.

“I’m pretty fucking far from okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Look... She moves us and we’re off the grid.”

“We’re not leaving this building with her.” Bucky paused for emphasis. There were two options. “Got it?”

“I got it,” Steve said roughly. 

“So, ideas? I’m surrounded by an Orson Welles nightmare army.”

“Think I can get my hands free. Uh, might crack a couple bones. I’ll make a distraction, draw them over.”

“I’ll do the distraction.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s my turn to do something stupid.”

“Buck.”

“She needs me alive. They shoot you dead right now, she still gets your serum. So no matter what happens, you get out of those cuffs.”

“And if she wipes you?” The lift started up with a creaking grinding echo. “You heard what she said, some fucking crazy emotionless program—”

“Steve, listen,” he interrupted and, yet again, time was draining away like sand through his fingers. “I came back to you.”

“Bucky, please don’t, please—”

“Hey, I’m with you. Just... Remember that for me, okay?”

“I love you.”

And no way was Bucky saying that in return, not like this. He had to believe they’d get another chance, or he’d crumple and fall apart. 

“Then trust me,” he whispered.

Jet clicked back to where Steve hung and checked her watch again. At her prompting, the robots began affixing an assortment of hoses and nozzles to a metal gas tank. 

Bucky knew Steve was watching him, he always knew, and he met his gaze, let himself feel all his emotions in full, fear and trust and anguish and love, so much love, all that had overwhelmed and bewildered him, and hoped at least a small fraction shone out to Steve, that Steve could keep it for him. 

Time to rise and shine, Barnes. He was in control. He winked.

“Your father was a piece of shit,” he said, loud enough for it to echo. “Bet he didn’t tell you all the naughty experiments they did, the stuff they don’t put in the files, right? Can’t talk about those parts.” 

Cold sweat rushed from his pores, along with something like elation, an intoxicating freedom. Jet frowned, musing, and turned to the autopsy table. Behind her, in the tank, Steve squared his jaw and began to twist and pull with his left arm, bracing his boots on the pole for leverage. Bucky purposely didn’t watch. Focus on the mission. Antagonize.

“His experiments were well-documented,” Jet said carefully, approaching him. “He was meticulous.”

“He tell you about the chemicals, the kind you give a dog? Had to personally make sure it was effective, too. Can’t have the asset jacking off after missions on the adrenaline high.” Bucky smiled. “I mean, who does that to another human being, right? What a damn shame, your daddy left you a toy with a broken dick.” The rush was so pure. He unloaded it, every disgusting piece, and he felt so goddamn light like he could float off the table and leave this HYDRA nightmare for good.

“Nothing you say will ever tarnish his memory," she hissed low. "Nothing.” She picked up the tablet attached to the electrode and he noticed she was shaking. A crack in the facade. He pried at it. 

“You think he gave a shit for anyone but himself? Truth was, he'd rather die with a cyborg assassin than his own child. All those years I spent by his side? He never said your name.”

“ _Liar_ ,” she seethed. 

“Not even once. Funny thing is, I was a brainwashed 70-year-old POW. I didn't know what love was, what loyalty meant. I’d have killed him if it was in the programming.” 

He had to laugh, it was too perfect, it was the final middle finger to Zola and HYDRA and my god it was satisfying. He watched her face pinch and wanted to etch it deep into his hippocampus, right over all those terrible memories, like fresh neon graffiti on tired old walls. The shade of a small man who haunted him always, right there just out of sight, blinked away as though he had never been at all. Bucky laughed in a way he hadn’t since before the war, in a way he’d thought was lost, and the lightness bubbled up from within him, so young and bright it could never be fully extinguished, he knew that now. Maybe that’s what Steve had always seen.

“You shut your fucking mouth!” she screamed, contorted into hideousness, fingers bloodless and white gripping the tablet.

A glass tank shattered: Steve. 

The robots advanced. His left arm shot up, the vibranium too powerful for the restraints, and caught Jet tight around her wrinkled throat, cutting off a command mid-phrase. The last thing he felt, succinctly and clearly, was a deep peace. 

She pressed the tablet as he closed his fist, the bones in the cervical spine succumbing, fingers ripping the larynx, tendons, the hot arterial spray of blood, recording the precise details of texture and pressure and temperature of gruesome violence. There was a hiccup in the data and Bucky jerked his head, the program download like an itch or tickle.

***

Steve cradled his mashed hand close to his chest and used the pain to focus tight on the intimidating automation headed for him, tasers zapping ominously. He wrenched up a nearby autopsy table and swung it broadside. It rang hollowly and dented, sending two androids to the floor in a flailing pile of limbs, like grounded roaches or a tumbled spider. He took another table to the taser appendage of a third robot and slammed on its head. The metal table bent, then crumpled at Steve’s furious force; it wasn’t as strong as his shield. 

Steve tore off the head in a screech of steel and wire sparks. He ducked a taser shot over his shoulder, then circled the ruins of the tank, spying the liquid nitrogen canister. He yanked the hose and spun the pressure valve. A hissing spray of half-liquid, half-gas sent up a massive fog and coated the closest androids with a frozen sheen, their joints slowing to a creak and tasers sparking uselessly.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, glancing to the other autopsy table. 

His breath caught. Jet, nearly decapitated, splayed on the floor like a discarded ragdoll, the sheer amount of blood staggering. Bucky stood above the violence, pondering the electrode in his palm. 

He startled at his name and he was a terror drenched in blood, his expression a blankness that made Steve want to lie down and cry for years. _Are you okay, do you remember yourself, do you remember us_ , he wanted to beg. 

Instead: “A little help?” he called.

Steve ducked another taser and noticed the neat pile of Bucky’s weaponry and supply bag to the rear of the laboratory. Bucky must’ve followed his eyes because he darted after them, sliding as if going into home base and taking out a robot around the legs, yanking its head off like Steve had done. He grabbed the supplies bag and the Sig, his favorite, Steve noted, and slid a Colt across the floor to Steve. 

Okay, a friendly gesture was encouraging, but what the hell was he going to do with a gun against steel androids? Without a commander, the robots stuttered between two moving targets, unsure where to commit.

“Get to the lift,” Steve shouted, just as a taser finally hit on-target and leveled him with a grunt, legs melting to jelly. He whited out, the voltage hot, and jerked to consciousness as the android tried to pin his crushed left hand. 

Steve screamed, the bones crunching further, and flung his weight into the robot, wrestling it off with his right. Dots danced in his vision, the migraine momentarily resurging and searing. Focus, focus, Steve willed desperately. There was a screech from across the lab as Bucky methodically disassembled another android. Steve saw two more approaching to join the five remaining, and their odds of getting to the lift didn’t look so great. He cast around for another option, any— Wait.

The gross menagerie along the wall, specimens preserved in formaldehyde. Which was, of course, highly flammable, said Howard Stark in his memories. 

If Steve stopped at all to consider what he was about to do, it was to pray, for once, that it didn’t kill him.

He aimed and pulled the trigger.

The fireball exploded outward, catching Steve into the air with the androids and flinging them all through the opposite wall. Steve sheltered his hand and took the impact in his shoulder, down his spine. The neighboring tank exploded a second later, and the following tank after; an unstable chain reaction. 

The heat was incredible.

A heavy pressure.

He was in the tunnel. He was in the ice.

No, wait.

Steve blinked, as if awakening from a deep nap. He’d lost a few seconds, a minute? The heat and toxic fumes were thick. Three disjointed robots and a piece of the concrete wall surrounded him, robotic limbs whirring uselessly. He watched, sight blurring, as cabinets of research and specimens succumbed to flames, Visceragen’s legacy with HYDRA gone up in smoke. His lungs burned with chemical residue. Get up, Rogers. You made a promise. You don’t crash this plane. Get the fuck up. 

Steve groaned amid the rubble. He coughed and cursed his vision, which was threatening to be overrun by wildly scintillating dots. The smoke burned, and he smelled his hair singing in the heat while he untangled himself from the robotic ruins. You promised.

“Bucky!” he called, and Steve didn’t recognize his own voice. He barely saw his fingers in front of him. The skin not covered by the tac suit was blistering.

“Steve.” It was close by, the sweetest sound, and Bucky’s hand snagged gently around his ankle. His face swam in the smoke, seared and bloodied. Steve fell to him.

"The wipe—?"

"Told you I'd come back. Thank Shuri. Didn't take." Bucky gasped wetly then and Steve suddenly realized what he was seeing. 

A ceiling section had collapsed in one massive slab and pinned him tight, the metal arm twisted behind him. From his side, under his ribs, rose a bloodied, bent thing of metal Steve recognized as a blasted robot part. A similar impalement pierced Steve’s heart.

"No," he whispered.

"You have to go." Bucky gripped him with surprising strength.

"No, not without you." Steve shook his head, hating him. The smoke was thick and he leaned closer, the heat taking his tears before they could form.

"Steve. It's gonna be all right. I love you."

He broke into pieces, into atoms.

"I can't do this again, Buck, god help me I can't."

"Rogers, don't you fucking die here. Don't you fucking dare."

Leave Bucky behind while he went on, again? He thought of the Other Man, the premonition of a damned man walking. Inflicting grief without caring, a cold revenge on the world at large. Langham’s pleas. Bad to worse. He contemplated lying down, because god, he was so tired of surviving and suffering and trying to make sense of it all. The exhaustion gripped his soul. They had earned the right to rest, free from anger and pain. The nothingness place was so close. He could stop struggling.

But. 

He had made a promise to a hundred-year-old man on a kitchen floor in suburban Delaware.

God damn it.

Steve forced down his weariness. He had to try. 

"I'm getting us out."

He surged to his feet. The heat was rising and he barely gathered a full breath to squat and grasp onto the massive ceiling slab, all several tons of concrete. He leveraged his mangled hand. If the serum was worth anything, anything at all, he needed it to be enough now. He swallowed his fears and doubts. 

Steve lifted.

The pain was instantaneous, excruciating. It coursed into him and defied description. The strain shook his core, stretching every tendon to the limit, each muscle fiber to its breaking point. No dropping the load, no second chances; he gave it his full effort. His blood, the serum, sang in his ears and pumped through his joints. If he was going to die, this was a better way. His bones creaked— Then, they aligned and dealt with the magnitude. Lift, higher, more. A battle fought in inches. Suck in a breath, not even enough to scream. The skin on his palms sloughed off, bloody and burned. Physical pain he had always known and borne.

And suddenly it was lighter.

Bucky's arm, freed, pushed from below. The vibranium grappled with the weight and the renewed effort tilted the balance. Like Sisyphus finally reaching the mountain pinnacle, the slab moved up and away and off, all together in a miraculous crash of debris. Bucky sagged, his body cradling around the warped metal in his side, shaking and burnt. But he stood, and when he looked at Steve it was with the same furious determination.

They struggled to the lift, an old creaking thing in a cramped shaft, and ascended from the hellscape.

***

They collapsed on the stairwell, gasping fresh air like two fish. Bucky coughed, an aggrieved wheeze, and hot gore slid in the hollow of his neck. He couldn’t tell what was red with blood or from burns. The new suit was intact, against all odds. Beside him, heat blisters swelled on Steve’s exposed skin and his hair was burnt to the flesh on one whole side. His eyes were fogged and swollen, weeping. They were wrecked. They were free.

Bucky coughed again and spat a mix of tissue and debris. He clutched at the lancing piece of foreign metal as a fresh blood seeped into his palm. The pain was sharp, cold. It would get worse. He acknowledged that, and carefully folded it up and placed it aside, like he'd learned to do over the decades. Already there was an internal itching as tissue re-knit around the wound. He knew how this went. This time, he was in control. HYDRA didn’t write his ending.

He inhaled slowly and with his flesh hand gently pushed Steve back from where he hovered. 

"Don't be scared," he rasped. Steve nodded numbly.

Bucky flexed his left arm, recalling the programming command lines, willing them into the prosthetic neurons. He took another slow breath, grasped the twisted metal, and yanked it straight out with a scream. 

He teetered on the edge of shock and watched his left hand set to work, skilled as a surgeon, even while his right trembled and slipped. The pain was incredible, too great to fathom. He was apart from it; he followed the programming. Pinch the vessels, gather the tissue, pressure on the wound, more pressure, hold it steady now, steady, wait, wait. Blood pumped against the warm vibranium. Temperature, pulse. 

Hold it steady, steady.

Wait. 

Wait.

***

Fury was quiet on the other end of the line, and for a minute Steve thought the call had dropped. He winced as he laid a fresh wet cloth over his scalp to soothe the burns. His eyes ached like he’d kept them open too long in Tony’s pool, and everything was blurred. His hand resembled the product of a meat grinder. If he had migraine pain it was indistinguishable.

“Okay. Soon as I saw Mack calling, knew it was some shit with you two. You aware the Hong Kong police are all over this, searching for who the hell bombed a condo during rush hour?” Also he may have robbed an ATM to bribe this apartment’s tenant, no point telling that part too. “So how the fuck do I get in there?”

“What if—”

“Rhetorical question, Rogers. I’ll deal with it. You don’t blow anything else up.”

“Think we’ll take a break,” Steve said drily.

“Keep your heads down, I got a contact headed your way for medical. And good work.” Fury ended the call.

He changed the cool cloth and even the smallest movements screamed. They were crammed in a one-room flat a few blocks from the destruction, the furthest they’d been able to make it in the general panic after Visceragen’s base collapsed. Steve slouched against the wall beside Bucky, who was pale and drawn, left hand held fast to his side on a pile of blankets. His bleeding had stopped. A silent black-and-white antennae television played endless cartoons in the corner, next to a stained toilet and bucket.

“We need to lie low,” Bucky said, a whisper. 

“Tactical evasion.” Steve studied his fingers, a sheen of new skin straining to regenerate over exposed muscle and broken bones. “I was never much good at it.”

“You always throw yourself headlong into a dumb situation.” 

Bucky waited.

Steve looked up. “So where are we disappearing to?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left._
> 
> — Mary Oliver

Sam slid into the diner booth, the seats tattered sticky plastic, and thumbed the laminated menu. Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. Four regulars sat like surly cats, occasionally interrupting the piped-in R&B radio station for a phlegmy cough. April showers spattered the windows.

“You want Shawna to make you the usual?” Sara swept in across from him and put her feet up. 

“Already ate.”

“So, how’d the meeting go. I got five minutes.”

Sam set down the menu and folded his hands. “I’m putting a team together in Harlem.”

It was the same words he’d said to the Director at SHIELD HQ, after they’d reviewed the escalating syndicate activity and the past year’s worth of terrorist threats, not to mention the public corruption scandals and protests rocking the city. The Avengers were built to fight global, interstellar crises; tackling grassroots at home, in the streets, was a different beast. 

Mack had chuckled. “Like Avengers Lite? You gonna use the shield?”

“You gonna wear an eyepatch?” Sam shot back. 

He’d built his case deliberately. There were contacts to leverage in Hells Kitchen, Queens. Instead of sporadic vigilantism they needed a cohesive effort, information-sharing, local knowledge. He’d spent the better part of a year mostly on his own, and the prior years following Steve, so he figured it was long past time to step up and trust himself to lead. Now he had a budget and names to recruit. 

Sara nodded slowly. How the hell was he more nervous to talk to her than to Mack? Sam waited as she re-tied her scarf around her braids. A patron hacked a gob of spit into a handkerchief. 

“Are you happy? Staying here?”

He paused. “I know I don’t want to leave. That enough?”

She smiled ruefully. “Not running away is the hardest part.”

“I worry… You know, what if I put you or ma or the kids in danger with what I do. Bad people could find you.” He’d dealt with hostages and prostitution rings and drug trafficking and that was the last six months. Aliens had been easy.

“I see bad people every day, Sam.” She said it plain, a truth. “What I don’t see is enough good people out there doing a damn thing about it. Fighting for _us_. Somebody who isn’t a god or a billionaire or a super whatever.”

“There might be a couple super whatevers on my team.”

Sara checked her phone, tossed a sugar packet at him, and scooted from the booth. “I’m back on the clock.” She leaned to kiss the crown of his head and Sam caught the scent of coffee and stale grease from her uniform. “Proud of you, brother,” she whispered, like it was simple and obvious and something she’d said to him since childhood.

***

The penthouse view was ever the same, Manhattan a sparkling, breathing city at night under a cloudless sky. The promise and triumph of such a cityscape inspired. Isn’t it why he’d built the Tower in the first place? To be a part of that homage to opportunity? He would miss it. That part wasn’t in the press release, or the sale contract. Real estate was a business. 

Tony considered the bottle of Dom Perignon in his hand and re-read the accompanying card: _Congrats on Nobel nom. Better luck next year. Can confirm award looks good in lab._ It was co-signed from Shuri and Simmons. Very funny. Kids these days. 

He tinkered with the cork and idly wondered if Thor had brought any Asgardian mead with him. Banner was already holed up in Nepal and honestly, if you crashed back to Earth ass-naked, you’d want some time alone too. Rogers and Tin Man were… Well, who knew. Alive and somewhere that didn’t have an extradition treaty, if they were smart. Tony figured they’d show up if the apocalypse was imminent, maybe on horseback. Ross was mired in litigation over Hong Kong and Langham’s trial was delayed again. Congressional investigations were a dime a dozen, split down party lines. He was one step away from wishing for the good ol’ days of Chitauri invasions— God, he was getting sentimental in his old age. 

“A final toast before closing?” Rhodes joined him by the windows. 

“Shouldn’t you be up Ross’s ass in DC?”

“Stinks down there; needed some fresh air. Potts let me up. You gonna open it?”

Tony looked down at the bottle. “Celebrating the sale of my now-irrelevant landmark building by solo-drinking a consolation gift sounds like a fun time waiting to happen.”

“You’re not irrelevant and you’re not alone. C’mon, man, you just made me say that.”

“You ever think about retirement, Rhodey? Getting out from all this?”

“Well it’d be a hell of a lot easier on my knees.”

“I gave you an upgrade two days ago.”

“That was a tune-up. Look, yeah, I get it, we’re the old guard now. Survived all this shit this long, figure I got at least some stories to tell the new Avengers.”

“The new Avengers. Is that a name? That could be a name. Simple, nothing snazzy.”

Rhodes snorted. Tony sighed and rested his eyes one final time on the horizon. He couldn’t cling to the past, the ghosts of his parents, or the way the team had been. Like Manhattan itself, time only went forward, only evolved, and to resist change was to be forgotten. Tony Stark was not going to be forgotten.

“FRIDAY, disconnect system.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, Mr. Stark.”

***

Natasha pulled her motorbike off the narrow dirt lane, at the red sign with a skull on it. DANGER!! MINES!! The combination of humidity and sun made the fields hazy, swimming like a mirage. A small group of white helmets bobbed in the distance. The motorbike following her stopped shortly, the tires sending up a small dust cloud. 

Natasha whistled sharp and high, taking off her sunglasses and squinting. The helmets paused. One waved, and she waited as it came closer.

“How you been, Nat?” Steve took off the helmet and wiped his brow, a losing battle in the heat.

“Hey stranger.” His hair was dyed dark but she always recognized him. Even in a rural Cambodian field.

“Agent Carter,” Steve greeted her travel companion, caught off-guard.

“You _can_ call me Sharon.” She smiled easily.

“Right.” He grinned and rubbed his neck, pink with temporary sunburn. Another white helmet slowly picked its way across the field. “So what’s the word? You could’ve called, not that I’m complaining.”

Nat shrugged. “You were on our way. It’s confidential,” she explained off Steve’s look.

Bucky joined them, unstrapping his kevlar blast vest and letting his sweat-soaked shirt dry in what little breeze stirred. “Natasha. Carter.”

“How’s Sam doing? How is everyone?” Steve read the news and had the encrypted phone but he needed to hear it from her.

“Relax, they’re good. I told you, we do pizza-and-a-movie nights. You two are missing out. Stop by sometime: I came to give you these.” Natasha handed them two passport booklets. United States of America.

Bucky flipped his open, raised an eyebrow, then tucked it away.

Steve tapped a finger. “Fraudulent passports? So we aren’t getting pardoned, I take it.”

“Three years until the next election cycle. Tell your friends to vote.” Natasha cocked her head at the passports. “Use them, don’t use them, up to you. Agent Phillips wants his identity back.” She swung a leg over her motorbike.

Sharon passed him a USB drive. "Cover details. When you're ready."

Steve held it thoughtfully and tucked the passport into a pants pocket. “Have you…” He cleared his throat. “Have you been to…?”

She touched his arm, softly, briefly. “Yeah, Steve. She gets the flowers.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“You should visit. It’s a nice spot. Peaceful.”

He nodded; not everything got easier with time. Sharon revved her motorbike, popping the kickstand and nosing it around. Natasha put on her sunglasses. 

“Be seeing you, Rogers. Barnes.”

Steve quirked a smile and a half-wave. Bucky took a swig from his canteen and watched the twin dust trails recede. The buzzing engines dimmed until it was only the birds in the trees and the clink of the demining equipment. He gave Steve a side-eye. 

“Bet your name isn’t as good as mine.”

Steve put his helmet on over sweat-matted hair. “Dunno, hard to beat Bucky."

Bucky rolled his eyes and strapped on the vest.

“You gonna go by James now?”

“Christ, you’re the worst.”

***

Steve turned on the small lamp in the stilted cottage they currently called home, on rent from a farmer whose fields were adjacent to the local demining operation. The nightly insect chorus was already singing outside. He closed the mosquito netting, pushed aside the mail and sketches on his crafted desk, and opened the passport. A new identity. He rubbed his eyes; when he was tired they blurred, though it was more than a year since Hong Kong. He put on his reading glasses. The migraines still came and went without warning, like the stiffness in his left hand, which had reset crooked because Steve was impatient. He wouldn’t call himself mission-ready, not by a long shot.

Steve detected a whiff of tobacco smoke that meant Bucky was back inside, after calling whoever it was he talked to for therapy appointments. A few things they kept private. Bucky had his cheap cigarettes, Steve had long walks to town. The VA contact from Sam never asked why the cell number was unlisted and encrypted. Away from it all, it was easier to start loosening the knot of anger he’d been tightening his whole life, but harder than he’d expected.

Now he sank into Bucky’s touch, warm in the humidity. The flesh hand ran calloused and firm over his bare shoulders, and he let his head rest against the muscles of Bucky’s chest.

“That's a good name.” Bucky studied his passport.

“It says I was born in 1978.”

"Happy belated 40th."

Bucky chuckled and leaned in, taking away the glasses and brushing down Steve’s front, finding all his vital spots as if to soothe them. Here they were just two more white foreigners. Not particularly shocking in an area rich with unexploded ordnance and demining non-profits. It wasn’t about fitting in; they would never fit anywhere, a uniquely jumbled mix of centuries and traumas and irregular bodies. Except with each other. Bucky’s flesh hand moved boldly below where he was lightly sweating through his sleep shorts.

His hips jerked when Bucky’s fingers grasped him loosely, and he grew heavy and hard. He closed a hand over Bucky’s to guide him, as if he still had to, and grabbed what he could of Bucky behind the chair, bringing him closer, always closer. Bucky’s other hand wandered across his bare chest, making Steve shudder as the metal playfully thumbed a tight nipple, and pressed firm above his heart. They stayed like this, lazy, until Steve felt the tension building, passing the point of no return, to a singular crescendo of letting go. He thrust up, needy, roughness tempered by slick sweat. Bucky mumbled in his ear and he came on his stomach, abruptly, quietly.

Bucky retreated and he was all cooling sweat and cooling spunk, too sensitive. He closed his eyes. Then a towel was wiping him off. Steve accepted the towel and gently dried his groin while Bucky changed, cock half-hard in that way he got when it wasn’t too bad a day. Sometimes they did more, or didn’t. They acquainted themselves with their bodies carefully, slowly, in this deepening intimacy. Likes and dislikes. What was too much and what was necessary. A whole discourse that had been largely unknown and a little frightening. Sometimes it still was. 

Steve clicked off the lamp and slid between the sheets, bumping elbows and knees with grumbles, fighting wordlessly for the extra pillow, then feeling the gentle soft press of Bucky nestle into the arch of his lower back, the crook of his ass.

“Rainy season soon,” Steve murmured.

Bucky’s breath puffed against his neck. “We’ll finish the field.”

“And then what.”

He heard Bucky pause. “C’mon, spit it out.”

Steve resettled, the bed creaking. “What I really want? I want to be Steven Grant Rogers, with James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Hey say it louder, maybe the Chinese will pick us up,” Bucky shushed. He rolled onto his back and Steve followed. Bucky tucked a hand beneath his pillow and Steve knew he was fidgeting with the bowie knife, a nervous habit.

“I’m saying, I’m not gonna use an alias to live in my own country.”

“The fella who forged his papers draws a line at passports.”

“I’m not taking another identity again, Buck.”

“Hey, hey, I hear you.” Bucky turned gentle.

“It’s been a long while since a place was home, really home, for me. The world moved on and I didn’t.” Steve took a deep breath, letting a weight go by saying aloud what he’d been working towards since he opened his eyes in Stark Tower and _saw_. “I want us to move on. Make our own way. Three years, maybe a pardon, we go back as who we are.” Steve met Bucky’s hand under the pillow, away from the knife. It was warm and solid. He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “If that sounds okay, to you.”

Bucky was still, their bodies a breath’s width away in the night. “Three years, huh,” he murmured, and levered up on an elbow, closing the distance between them. His eyes shone, catching moonlight from the window in a joyously bright gleam. For a moment the decades fell away and they were two kids in Brooklyn. “What’ve you got in mind?”

Steve smiled, and for the first time he thought about the future.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work resulted from listening to "Thinking of a Place" by The War on Drugs many, many times. 
> 
> Assorted particularly useful references, for people who enjoy useful references:
> 
>  _On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society_ by Dave Grossman 
> 
> _The Evil Hours: A Biography of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder_ by David J. Morris
> 
>  _Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II_ by Allan Bérubé
> 
>  _Writing the Other: A Practical Approach_ by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward


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